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, 

THE 

TEMPLETON 

CASE 

BY 

VICTOR L. WHITECHURCH 

ii 



NEW YORK 

EDWARD J. CL ODE, Inc. 










^ 2 ^ 

' At -V 


COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 
EDWARD J. CLODE, INC, 


All rights reserved 



PUNTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

SEP 17 1924 V 

©C1AS00871 



CONTENTS 

TAGS 

CHAPTER ^ _ 

I. Reginald Templeton Comes to 


Marsh Quay. 9 

II. The Visit to the Opposite Shore . 23 

III. A Terrible Discovery .... 28 

IV. What Canon Fittleworth Found 

on the “Firefly”.43 

V. Detective-Sergeant Colson Discov¬ 
ers Clues.62 

VI. Colson is Baffled. 79 

VII. The Inquest. 

VIII. Winnie Cotterill Pays a Visit to 

Frattenbury. 11 3 

IX. The Cigar Band. T 3 2 

X. Harold Grayson is Detained . . 146 

XI. The Canon’s Cigars. 161 

XII. Fresh Evidence. *79 

XIII. Isaac Moss Explains. *95 

XIV. Reginald Templeton’s Letter . . 216 

XV. Detective-Sergeant Colson’s De¬ 
ductions . 22 7 

XVI. Mr. Proctor Upsets Matters . . 243 

XVII. New Theories. 262 

XVIII. Sir James Perrivale’s Story . . 279 

XIX. Colson Makes an Appointment . 288 

XX. Colson’s “Imagination” • • • • 2 97 


XXI. Final Solution of the Problem . 312 




















THE TEMPLETON CASE 



THE TEMPLETON CASE 


CHAPTER I 

REGINALD TEMPLETON COMES TO MARSH QUAY 

Tom Gale leaned heavily on the low bulwarks 
of the little schooner Lucy, his arms folded upon the 
aforesaid bulwarks, his short, black clay pipe in 
his mouth, and his eyes fixed on the flowing tide 
glittering in the sunlight of a clear October day 

Tom Gale had nothing whatever to do, and was 
doing it well, lounging and thinking, for the most 
part, about nothing at all. He combined the offices 
of crew and cook of the little coasting schooner 
that was moored at the head of Marsh Quay, waiting 
for a load of gravel that was delayed. That very 
morning word had been brought that the contractor 
would not be able to cart the gravel from the pit, 
about three miles away, down to Marsh Quay until 
the following Tuesday. This was Saturday, and the 
“captain” and “mate” had incontinently taken them- 
9 


10 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


selves off to their respective homes at Frattenbury, 
leaving Tom Gale in charge. 

Tom Gale did not in the least mind having nothing 
to do beyond taking care of a vessel that nobody 
was likely to run away with. There was good beer 
to be had at the “Mariner’s Arms,” not a hundred 
yards away, and there was a nice snug bar parlour 
in the “Mariner’s Arms,” where the evenings might 
be spent in comfort—for there was no risk in desert¬ 
ing the vessel for an hour or two. 

Marsh Quay was on one of the little estuaries of 
the sea that pierced into the southern country from 
the Channel. Two miles northward, the grey, taper¬ 
ing spire of the Cathedral of Frattenbury stood out 
against the background of Downs and blue sky. 
The estuary, which ran up within a mile of Fratten¬ 
bury to the westward, was at Marsh Quay only 
about two hundred yards in width, but broadened 
out southward until a curve hid its course towards 
the open sea. 

Marsh Quay, as its name implied, was a little 
quay jutting out into the estuary from the eastern 
shore. It was only about fifty yards long, but fairly 
broad, and contained sheds for storage on either 
side, except at the end, where it was quite open for 
a space, which formed room for a small vessel to be 


TEMPLETON COMES TO MARSH QUAY 11 

moored on either side, as well as one at its extremity. 

The quay was reached by a straight road of about 
half a mile, which turned out of the main road to 
Frattenbury, and ended abruptly on the quay itself. 
As one approached by this road one passed a few 
cottages on either side, while, just before one came 
to the quay itself, there was a good-sized house on 
the right, and the “Mariner’s Arms” on the left. 
The seaward wall of the little inn was washed at the 
base at spring tides, and the windows looked out 
over the estuary. 

On the right-hand side of the quay, screened by 
the buildings on it, was an anchorage for vessels of 
small draught at low tide. A couple of little yachts 
were riding here, while, drawn up on the shore, were 
two or three flat-bottomed light canoes and some 
small boats. Most of these belonged to the 
“Mariner’s Arms,” and were for hire, Marsh Quay 
being quite a little resort at high tide in summer, 
when Frattenbury people came out to fish, or to 
sail in the estuary. 

On the shore immediately opposite was a wood, 
coming right down to the water’s edge, already turn¬ 
ing golden yellow with autumn tints. Above the 
trees of this wood, a few hundred yards inland, could 
be seen the upper part of a house to which a boat, 


12 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


moored to the tiny jetty opposite, evidently belonged. 

At low tide the estuary was a wide expanse of 
black mud, except for a narrow channel winding in 
the middle, and the little pool beside the quay, which 
formed the anchorage. The tide from the Channel 
outside came in with a strong current which rushed 
back at the turn. Boating was not particularly safe, 
and even if one were sailing a light draught yacht, 
one had to know the shallows well, while heavier 
vessels coming up or going down with the tide had 
to stick to the mid-channel, to avoid running on the 
mud. 

The Lucy was moored at the end of the quay, 
her bows pointing southward. It was almost high 
tide, still coming in, with only the vestige of a breeze 
from the south-west. As Tom Gale gazed vacantly 
over the sparkling waters, a speck of white appeared, 
coming into view round the bend. His seaman’s 
interest was aroused. Slowly he stretched himself 
into an upright position, and shaded his eyes with 
his hand. 

Presently he muttered to himself: 

“ ’Tain’t the first time he’s come up. Knows his 
way about, or he wouldn’t ha’ steered off the point 
there.” 

The speck of white grew more distinct, evolving 


TEMPLETON COMES TO MARSH QUAY 13 

into the mainsail, foresail, and jib of a small, cutter- 
rigged yacht. She was making little more than tide¬ 
way, her sails every now and then flapping as the 
breeze dropped. 

Tom Gale took a look round. The water was 
flowing by more slowly, the floating bits of seaweed 
hardly moving now. 

“Reckon he can’t do it,” he said. “There ’ent 
wind enough to bring him up against this tide and 
it’s almost on the ebb now.” 

Even as he spoke, the foresail came down with a 
run, followed by the jib. Then the mainsail slowly 
descended. 

“What’s he up to?” said Tom Gale. “Don’t seem 
to know his way about arter all. If he drops anchor 
there he’ll drag for a certainty and get on the mud. 
Much better ha’ slipped back to Langham on the 
tide. Ah—I see.” 

For the yacht suddenly began to forge ahead, 
while a faint succession of thudding sounds came 
over the water. 

“One of them auxiliary oil engines, that’s it.” 

Gathering speed, the yacht came up the estuary, 
stemming the outflowing tide. Tom Gale could see 
two men on her now, one steering and the other 
stowing the sails. 


14 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


Presently she came up near the quay, slowing 
down a bit, and Tom Gale, looking down, could 
make out both men plainly. The one engaged in 
stowing the sails had moved forward and was getting 
the anchor ready. He was evidently a sailor, and 
wore dark blue trousers and a jersey, with a peaked 
cap on his head. The other was a man who looked 
about fifty years of age, with moustache and short, 
iron-grey beard. His face was much tanned by 
exposure to weather. He wore dark trousers, a 
short reefer jacket, and a yachtsman’s cap was tilted 
on the back of his head. As he passed beneath the 
schooner he looked up, caught Tom’s eye, and 
shouted: 

“Plenty of room round the quay?” 

“Plenty o’ room, sir,” answered Tom, “but stand 
out a bit to get round—it’s runnin’ a smart pace.” 

“I remember,” the other shouted back, with the 
air of one who was familiar with the estuary. 

Tom Gale slowly paced the deck of the schooner 
to get a better view aft. He watched the little craft 
draw up to her anchorage; she was a smart little 
boat, painted white, with a green line round her just 
below the bulwarks, and Tom’s practised eye saw 
that she had been painted quite recently. Abaft 
the raised cabin was a well, in which the steersman 


TEMPLETON COMES TO MARSH QUAY 15 

sat and controlled the engine, and the entrance to 
this cabin the doors of which were open, was from 
this well. Forward was a forecastle, evidently pro¬ 
viding just room for a solitary “crew.” 

Tom Gale watched her as she came to her anchor¬ 
age. In this pool, cut off, as it were, by the side of 
the quay, the water was scarcely affected by the flow 
of the tide. There was a splash as the anchor was 
heaved overboard, a rattle of the chain, and the 
yacht slowly swung to her moorings. 

The interest dwindled. Tom Gale pulled out a 
big silver watch. It was one o’clock. 

“Time for a pint, I reckon,” he murmured. 

Slowly and heavily he climbed over the bulwarks 
and walked along the quay to the “Mariner’s Arms.” 
A stout, pleasant-looking, rosy-cheeked woman was 
standing behind the little bar, polishing glasses. To 
her he nodded with the air of an old acquaintance, 
kept up by frequent visitations. 

“Gimme a pint, please, missus.” 

She drew it out of a big cask that stood on trestles 
behind the bar. 

“Weather keeps fine.” 

“Ah—not much to grumble at,” he replied as he 
counted out coppers. “Anyone in the parlour?” 

“Only the gentleman that’s staying here.” 


i6 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Who’s he?” 

She shook her head. 

“Dunno. An artist. Leastways, he does a bit o’ 
paintin’—and fishin’ too,” she added. “Been with 
me nearly a week now. Nice quiet young man. 
Don’t give no trouble.” 

“I’ll have a look at ’im.” 

“Ah, do.” 

Tom Gale moved across the bar, opened a door, 
and passed into the parlour that overlooked the 
estuary. As has been said, the bar parlour of the 
“Mariner’s Arms” was snug and cosy. Also it was 
in harmony with its name and surroundings. Five 
models of ships stood on the broad mantelpiece, and 
the pictures consisted of oleographs of the departure 
of Nelson from Portsmouth Hard on his last voyage, 
his death at Trafalgar, and three or four ocean liners, 
and a brigantine under full canvas sailing on an 
impossible blue sea. The furniture was homely but 
solid, and a comfortable settee stretched along one 
side of the room. 

Seated near the window, his unfinished glass of 
beer on the table by his side, was a young man of 
about five and twenty, smoking a cigar. He was 
clean-shaven, with fair hair rather inclined to curl, 
a firm, strong mouth, and clear blue eyes. He was 


TEMPLETON COMES TO MARSH QUAY 17 

dressed in a loose knickerbocker suit, and was wear¬ 
ing a soft turned-down collar. 

Tom Gale touched his c&p, and then awkwardly 
removed it as he sat down and put his mug of beer 
on the table. 

“Good afternoon, sir.” 

“Good afternoon.” 

Tom Gale took a long pull at his beer. He was a 
sociable man. 

“Nice weather, sir.” 

“It is, very.” 

“Doin’ a bit of fishing, Mrs. Yates tells me.” 

The young man flicked the ash off his cigar, and 
smiled. 

“Trying to,” he said, “but I haven’t had any 
particular luck, so far.” 

Tom Gale thereupon waxed garrulous on the 
subject. He knew the estuary well and was up to 
all kinds of fishing dodges. From fishing the conver¬ 
sation turned to sailing, and from sailing narrowed 
down to the yacht that had just anchored. 

“Did you see her, sir?” 

“I was watching her just now, before you came 
in.” 

“Little beauty, I call her. I reckon she could 
give points to a few in a smart breeze. Looks to 


i8 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


me like one o’ they Cowes boats. Never seen her 
up here before, but the skipper knowed the way 
right enough. ’Tain’t the first time he’s run up 
to Marsh Quay, I’ll ’low. Handled her just right.” 

“Well, you ought to know,” said the other with 
a laugh. 

“Ah—reckon I does. Though I ain’t had no 
chance o’ sailin’ a beauty like that. Nice thing to 
have nothin’ to do, and a craft like her to do it in. 
One o’ these here rich chaps, I expects, what can 
afford to live in luxury and have their wine and 
whisky and cigars whenever they pleases.” 

The young man had just drawn out his case, and 
was selecting a fresh cigar as Tom was speaking. 
He held out his case with a laugh. 

“Don’t be jealous of his cigars,” he said; “have 
one of mine, if you like’ em.” 

“Thank ’ee, sir. I don’t mind if I do. Not that 
I often smokes one—don’t get the chance.” 

He took out a knife, opened it, and was about to 
cut the cigar, then hesitated. 

“I’ll save it till to-morrow, if you don’t mind, sir. 
I always reckon a cigar’s a Sunday smoke.” 

“All right,” said the other, as he removed the 
band from his own cigar and threw it in the grate. 


TEMPLETON COMES TO MARSH QUAY 19 

The fire was ready laid, but the weather was warm 
and it had not been lighted. 

Tom Gale stowed away his cigar in his pocket, 
drained his mug, and glanced out of the window. 

“Hallo!” he said, “they’re coming ashore.” 

“Who?” 

“Gentleman from the yacht—and his man.” 

From the window they could see the yacht. A 
little dinghy was coming ashore, pulled by the sailor. 
As the bows grated on the stones he sprang out, 
took a bundle from the boat, waited till the other 
had moved into his seat and taken the oars, and 
then shoved her off again. 

“Skipper gone back to the yacht,” said Tom, who 
was still watching. “T’other coming along for a 
drink—if I knows a sailor man rightly.” 

Five minutes later the said sailor man entered the 
parlour, a mug of beer in his hand. 

“What cheer, mate! Good day, sir,” as he caught 
sight of the other. 

The two men of a trade quickly forgathered 
together, while the other quietly smoked his cigar 
and now and then put in a word. 

“Stroke o’ luck for me,” said the newcomer, with 
all the open frankness of his calling. “I ain’t been 
this way this three year or more. Got an old uncle 


20 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


living over at Frattenbury, and the skipper’s given 
me the night off to go and see him. Got to get back 
early to-morrow to get his breakfast for him.” 

“What, does he sleep aboard?” asked Tom Gale. 

“Always, ever since I’ve been with him, and that’s 
gettin’ on for three weeks now. Don’t like hotels, 
he says. Ain’t been used to ’em. Been livin’ up 
country in Africa or somewhere—explorer cove, 
seemingly. Knows his way about.” 

“How long is he puttin’ in here?” 

“Three or four days, I reckon. Knows Fratten- 
bury; got a relative there, I think.” 

“How about his dinner to-night?” asked the young 
man. “Is he seeing to it himself?” 

“No, sir. Goin’ to walk into Frattenbury pres¬ 
ently and have it there, he says. Cornin’ back 
to-night.” 

“Got a soft job, ain’t ye?” asked Tom Gale with 
a broad grin. 

’Tain’t bad. But he’s mighty particular.” 

“Where did you pick him up?” 

“Why, he only landed at Plymouth a month ago; 
came straight on to Salcombe for yachtin’—mad on 
it. My governor there hired him the boat and picked 
me out to see to him. We’ve been runnin’ along the 
coast, putting in at Dartmouth, Weymouth, and 


« 


21 


TEMPLETON COMES TO MARSH QUAY 

Poole. Left Ryde early this mornin’, then the wind 
dropped. Ah, he ain’t a bad sort, ain’t Mr. Temple¬ 
ton.” 

And he buried his face in his mug, and then 
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

The young man leaned forward a little in his 
chair. 

“Did you say his name was Templeton?” he 
asked. 

“That’s right, sir; Mr. Reginald Templeton. It’s 
painted on one of his trunks.” 

“And he came from Africa?” 

“That’s correct sir.” 

“And he’s staying here several days?” 

“Yes, sir. Well, I must be off. Good afternoon, 
sir. Come into the bar and have one with me afore 
I go,” he went on to Tom Gale. 

The latter obeyed the call with ponderous alacrity. 
The young man remained smoking thoughtfully. 
Presently the landlady came in to clear away the 
mugs from the table. 

“Lor’ sir,” she said, “ain’t you goin’ out paintin’ 
this beautiful afternoon?” 

He shook his head. 

“I’m not in the mood,” he said. 

“Well, sir, why don’t you try a bit o’ fishin’? 


22 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


There’s whitin’ to be caught off the quay head when 
the tide’s ebbin’. And you’d get a bit o’ bait off 
of Harry Turner, the second cottage down the road. 
I know he’s got some.” 

“No, thank you, Mrs. Yates, I’m going up to my 
room. I’ve some letters to write.” 

His bedroom was over the bar parlour. When he 
reached it he looked out of the window. 

He took a pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted 
it. But he seemed to have forgotten his letters. 
Instead of writing, he sat by the window, carefully 
watching to see if Mr. Templeton came ashore. 


CHAPTER n 


THE VISIT TO THE OPPOSITE SHORE 

Tom Gale, with the comfortable sensation of the 
replenishment of his inner man with a double por¬ 
tion of his favourite beverage, went back on board 
the Lucy and resumed his attitude of leaning over 
the bulwarks and gazing upon the estuary. Only, 
this time, he was aft of the schooner instead of 
forward. 

The tide had gone down rapidly, and great patches 
of slimy black mud were showing on either side of 
the central current. Opposite, just southward of 
the small landing-stage where the boat was moored, 
a stony patch ran out into the estuary, banking up 
the water on the northern side. This made it pos¬ 
sible, except at extreme low water, to cross in a small 
boat from shore to shore without running on the mud. 

As Tom Gale puffed at his short pipe he was 
attracted by a noise from the yacht. Looking 
towards it, he observed that Templeton was hauling 
the dinghy alongside. 


23 


24 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Goin’ ashore,” murmured Tom. 

Templeton got into the dinghy, cast her off, 
took the oars, and began rowing across the estuary. 
To do this he had to head the boat diagonally 
upstream and to pull with all his might athwart 
the current. Slowly he crossed over, Tom Gale 
grunting approval, till he reached the little pool 
of comparatively calm water formed by the stony 
patch. Here he got out, took the anchor, hitched 
it round a big stone, and shoved off the boat to the 
full length of her painter. Then he walked briskly 
up the shore and disappeared into the wood— 
towards the house. 

The young man watching from the window of the 
“Mariner’s Arms” had seen Templeton cross over. 

He put on his hat, came downstairs and strolled 
out on the quay. Then he stepped aboard the 
Lucy, and began to talk to Tom Gale. 

Presently he asked, nonchalantly: 

“Who lives in that house beyond the trees yon¬ 
der?” pointing to the opposite shore. 

Tom Gale, who had been up and down the 
estuary scores of times, and was a confirmed gossip, 
answered readily: 

“Over there? Oh, he’s a London chap. Name 
o’ Moss—Isaac Moss. He’s a Jew, so they say.” 


THE VISIT TO THE OPPOSITE SHORE 25 

“Ont-of-the-way place, eh?” 

“He only comes down for week-ends. That’s his 
craft—yonder,” and he nodded towards one of the 
little yachts lying near the newcomer. “Has to 
keep her over this side, but rows across when he 
wants her. She’s stowed for the winter now, I 
reckon. Lord, he can’t sail her, sir. Has a man to 
do it for him.” 

“What is he?” 

“Dunno. Something up in London. Reg’lar Jew, 
sir. Come walkin’ out from Frattenbury one Sat¬ 
urday I was here—his motor had gone wrong, and 
couldn’t run in to fetch him. Asked me to pull 
him across when a smartish tide was runnin,’ and 
give me thruppence for it. Look—that’s him,” and 
he pointed to the other side, where two men were 
coming out of the wood to the shore. “T’other’s 
the skipper cornin’ back I reckon.” 

Templeton, for it was he, drew the dinghy ashore, 
stepped into her, and began to row across. The 
other, a small man, stood on the shore, apparently 
still talking to him. 

The young man, who had been sitting on the bul¬ 
warks, rose, left the schooner, and walked back to 
the inn. From the window he again took up his 
watch. This time he was successful. Templeton, 


26 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


having boarded his yacht for a few minutes, pulled 
himself ashore, dragged the dinghy a little way out 
of the water and made her painter fast to a stump 
of wood. Then he began walking briskly over the 
field path that led to Frattenbury. 

By this time it was well on in the afternoon. 
The young man came down, had his tea, and then 
strolled out. For some time he stood at the entrance 
to the quay looking at the yacht. The latter was 
only about twenty yards from the shore, and he 
could clearly make out the name on her bows— 
the Firefly . 

Later on Tom Gale found a little company 
assembled in the bar parlour, and spent a pleasant, 
and somewhat beery, evening. At ten o’clock 
Mrs. Yates gently but firmly turned them all out. 
The little group stood talking for a few minutes in 
the road, and then separated. The night was very 
dark, but Tom Gale was accustomed to dark nights 
at sea. Mechanically observant, he could make out 
the dim shape of the dinghy, already half afloat on 
the flowing tide, while the outline of the yacht, riding 
at anchor, was just discernible. There were no 
lights showing on it. 

“Skipper ain’t come back yet; he’ll have a dark, 


THE VISIT TO THE OPPOSITE SHORE 27 

lonesome kind o’ walk from Frattenbury,” he said 
to himself as he made his way along the quay. 

Arrived on board the Lucy , he dived into the fore¬ 
castle, lighted a candle, closed the hatch—he liked 
fuggy surroundings—removed his jacket, guernsey 
and trousers, rolled into his bunk, blew out the 
light, and in a few minutes was sleeping the heavy 
sleep of the saturated. 

The tide rippled up the estuary. The lights in 
the “Mariner’s Arms” and the cluster of cottages 
went out. Marsh Quay and its surroundings were 
still and quiet in the calm autumn night. 


CHAPTER III 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 

Jim Webb, “crew” of the yacht Firefly , came 
walking briskly over the fields from Frattenbury the 
next morning. In the clear autumn air he heard 
the Cathedral chimes strike the half-hour, and com¬ 
pared the time with his watch. Half-past seven. 
His skipper breakfasted at half-past eight, so there 
was plenty of time for him to prepare the meal with 
the help of the little oil-stove in his cuddy. 

It was only a few minutes later when he reached 
Marsh Quay. Mrs. Yates, who was standing at the 
open door of the “Mariner’s Arms,” greeted him 
with a “Good morning,” which he returned. 

The tide was out and the yacht rode at anchor in 
calm water. Moored to her stern was her dinghy, 
and Webb had to get aboard. 

Mrs. Yates, who was a good-natured woman, had 
come out of the inn and strolled down to where he 
was standing by the water’s edge. 

“You’ll be getting your master’s breakfast, I sup- 
28 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


29 


pose,” she said. “If you want any hot water, Eve 
got a kettle on the fire.” 

“Thankee kindly, missis, but there’s a stove 
abord. Tell you what, though, I’ll have to borrow 
one of these punts. I suppose that’ll be all right?” 

“You’re welcome. These here belong to me, and 
a nuisance they are at times. The boys will get 
playing about with them. Look here—they’ve been 
at it again, the young rascals! I know this one was 
tied up all right yesterday.” And she pointed to 
one which was unsecured to a post. “Them boys 
are the plague of my life,” she went on, as Webb 
dragged the little craft down to the water and 
shoved off. 

She stood, arms akimbo, watching him as he 
paddled the few strokes that brought him to the 
yacht. As he clambered aboard he waved his hand 
to her, and at that moment he noticed behind her 
the young man who had been in the bar parlour the 
previous evening push a bicycle, with a stuffed hold- 
all strapped to it, and go quickly riding away along 
the road. 

Mrs. Yates still stood looking out over the great 
expanse of mud that characterised the estuary at 
low tide. It was a pleasant morning, and she had 
nothing particular to do just then. 


30 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


Turning, she stopped for a minute or two to 
tighten the painter of one of the other boats, and 
then began to walk slowly back to her house. Sud¬ 
denly she stopped. A hoarse cry rang out over the 
water behind her. Turning once more, she saw 
Webb frantically climbing from the yacht into the 
canoe, shouting incoherently as he did so. 

She ran to the shore to meet him as he landed. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Him—Mr. Templeton!” he cried as he staggered 
ashore. 

“What?” 

“Dead!” 

“Dead? What do you mean?” 

“Yes—dead! I found him lying there in the 
cabin—on the floor.” 

“But—but—surely-” 

“I tell you he’s dead!” cried the man; “and 
what’s more, he’s been murdered! ” 

“Oh, my God!” ejaculated Mrs. Yates, sitting 
down on one of the posts. “What do you mean?” 

“What I say. The cabin door was open, but I 
didn’t take no notice o’ that. He always sleeps 
with plenty o’ fresh air about. At first I thought 
he’d tumbled out of his bunk and stunned himself— 
till I saw something else on the floor—blood it was, 



A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


3i 

missis. Then I took a closer look at him, and saw 
he was stone dead! Lyin’ on his face, he is—and 
the blood all round him.” 

“Where—whereabouts was he hurt?” 

“I dunno; I never stayed to see. What be I 
to do, missis? This is a case for the police, and-” 

“What’s the matter? What is a case for the 
police?” 

They turned quickly. Coming out of the garden 
gate of the house opposite the “Mariner’s Arms” 
was a little elderly man, with a perfectly bald head 
and clean-shaven face, like an egg. He was dressed 
in a loose velveteen jacket and grey flannel trousers, 
and wore a gaudy pair of woollen slippers. 

“What the matter?” 

“Oh, Mr. Proctor!” almost screamed Mrs. Yates, 
“I’m so glad you’ve come. It’s murder, sir!” 

“Mr. Templeton, sir,” cried Webb; “he’s been 
done to death—over there—on the yacht. I’ve just 
found him-” 

“Steady, my man, steady. Try and keep calm 
and tell me all about it. If it’s what you say, there’s 
no time to be lost.” 

Under the quieting influence of the old gentle¬ 
man, Jim Webb retold his ghastly story; Mr. 
Proctor pursing up his little round mouth, nodding 




32 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


encouragingly and now and then helping him out 
with a word or a question. Then he took complete 
command of the case. 

“Someone must go to Frattenbury at once and 
tell the police, and bring a doctor.” 

“There’s the young man what’s lodging with 
me—Mr. Grayson,” exclaimed the landlady. “He’s 
just ridin’ his bicycle into Frattenbury.” 

“He’s gone,” said Webb. “I seen him go just as 
I was gettin’ aboard.” 

“Gone!” cried Mrs. Yates, “and never said 
good-bye to me?” 

“What,” said Mr. Proctor, “is he leaving for 
good?” 

“Yes, sir. All of a sudden like. Came down an 
hour earlier for his breakfast and asked for his bill. 
I couldn’t make it out.” 

“Well, well,” replied Mr. Proctor. “Time enough 
to talk about him later. My young great-nephew is 
staying with me, and he’s got a bicycle. I’ll send 
him into Frattenbury at once. He’s a sharp lad. 
Phil,” he cried, turning to the house, “Phil, come 
here at once. Look sharp.” 

A bright-looking boy of about fifteen came run¬ 
ning up. Mr. Proctor gave him hasty instructions. 

“Ride as hard as you can,” he said. 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


33 


“Righto, uncle. I’ll do it in ten minutes.” 

“Good boy. Now, my man are you quite cer¬ 
tain your master is dead?” 

“Yes, sir—there ain’t no doubt about it.” 

“Urn—all the same, I’ll go and have a look. You 
can pull me out.” 

Mrs. Yates waited on the shore till he returned, 
shaking his head. 

“There’s no doubt about it, I’m afraid. We 
can’t do any more. I haven’t moved anything. 
Best let the police find things just as they are. You 
two come into my house and have something. 
You’re both scared, that’s what you are.” 

He took them in and gave them a brandy and 
soda each. When they came out again the news 
spread rapidly, and a group of men, women and 
children gathered on the shore and gazed at the 
yacht. Tom Gale came along the quay, munching 
the remains of his breakfast. Mr. Proctor nudged 
Jim Webb’s arm just as the latter was about to 
tell the story to an expectant audience. 

“If you’ll take my advice, my man,” he said, 
“you’ll say nothing. Wait till the police come, and 
let them take the lead.” 

Jim Webb accordingly lighted his pipe and re¬ 
mained dumb, much to the annoyance of the little 


34 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


crowds, the members of which began to speculate 
upon what had happened, and finally determined, 
to their great satisfaction, that Webb himself had 
committed the murder and that Mr. Proctor was 
keeping an eye upon him till the police arrived to 
arrest him. One of them even suggested to the 
latter: 

“Hadn’t we better lock him up in Mrs. Yates’s 
cellar, sir?” 

“Lock who up?” 

“Why, him” pointing a condemnatory thumb over 
his shoulder at the unconscious Webb. 

“Lock yourself up for a silly fool,” retorted Mr. 
Proctor contemptuously. 

Presently a motor appeared dashing down the 
road. It was driven by the superintendent of the 
police. By his side was the doctor, and in the back 
seat a burly constable and a man in plain clothes. 
They all jumped out. Mr. Proctor, who was still 
in supreme command, addressed a few words to 
the superintendent. 

“You’ve done quite right, sir—quite right,” said 
the latter; “and now we’ll get on with things at 
once.” 

The superintendent was a quiet, refined-looking 
man, with a big black moustache. The man in 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


35 

plain clothes was of slight build, clean shaven, alert, 
and with shrewd grey eyes. 

“Now, sergeant, 7 ’ said the superintendent, “you 
and I will go aboard with the doctor.” He went on, 
turning to the constable, “You stay here. We shall 
want you, my man” he added, addressing Jim Webb. 
“What’s your name?” 

“Webb, sir.” 

“Told you so,” said the man who had been 
snubbed by Mr. Proctor. “They always confront 
’em with their victims. Why don’t he put the hand¬ 
cuffs on him?” 

A boat was run down to the water, and Webb 
pulled them out to the yacht. 

The cabin was small. Webb, at the command of 
the superintendent, stayed outside, while the three 
men squeezed their way in. It was just the ordi¬ 
nary saloon of a small yacht. There was a bunk 
on either side, with lockers beneath and a folding- 
table, fixed to the floor, ran half-way down the cen¬ 
tre. Huddled up to the floor, on his face, was the 
body of Reginald Templeton. 

The doctor went down on his knees by his side 
and made a careful investigation. 

“Stabbed in the back,” he said presently, “and 
whoever did it knew the right place—right through 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


36 

the heart, as far as I can see. He must have fallen 
just as he is, and died instantaneously.” 

“How long has he been dead?” asked the super¬ 
intendent. 

The doctor went on with his examination, and 
consulted his watch. 

“Some hours,” he replied. “Rigor mortis has 
begun to set in. I should say it might have been 
after midnight—probably before. I should like to 
make a complete examination later on. Can’t we 
have him moved to the inn?” 

“That will be best,” replied the superintendent. 
“We’ll see about that.” 

“There’s a motor just come,” said Webb from the 
deck. 

“That’s mine,” said the doctor. “I told my man 
to follow us out. I’ll get back now, but I’ll be 
down again later in the morning. There’s no more 
I can do at present.” 

“All right. Colson,” went on the superintendent 
to the detective, “you’d like to stay aboard and in¬ 
vestigate a bit?” 

“Yes, sir. I want a good look round. And I pre¬ 
fer working alone.” 

The superintendent took a last searching glance 
round the cabin. 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


37 


“Webb!” 

“Yes, sir?” 

Webb put his head in at the doorway. 

“That lamp,” and he pointed to an oil-lamp swing¬ 
ing from the ceiling. “It’s burning. Did you light 
it when you came aboard?” 

“No, sir. I never noticed it.” 

“Very well. Now pull me ashore, please.” 

“Mr. Proctor,” he said when he came ashore and 
the doctor had departed, “may we go into your 
house? I want to ask Webb some questions.” 

“By all means, Superintendent. Come along in. 
Have you had breakfast yet?” 

“Yes, thanks.” 

“How about you, Webb?” 

“I had some at Frattenbury, sir.” 

“Well, I’ll leave you,” said Mr. Proctor as he 
took them into his dining-room. 

“Don’t do that,” said the superintendent. “You 
may be able to help us. Now then, Webb,” and he 
took out his notebook. 

“Yes, sin” 

“Where’s your home?” 

“Thirty-one, Fore Street, Salcombe, sir.” 

“You’re a sailor?” 

“I work for Mr. Jefferies, sir. He lets out boats. 


38 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

He hired the Firefly to Mr. Templeton—Mr. Regi¬ 
nald Templeton, sir.” 

“When?” 

“Three weeks ago.” 

“You’ve been with him ever since?” 

“Yes, sir,” and he recapitulated what he had told 
Tom Gale in the inn parlour. 

“Who was Mr. Templeton?” 

“He’d just come from Africa, sir. I reckon, from 
what he said, he’d been exploring or something. 
But he didn’t talk much. He knew how to handle 
a boat, sir.” 

“I see. And you visited all these places?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you know if he had any particular reason 
for coming here?” 

“I think he had, sir.” 

“Why?” 

“He asked from the first whether I knew the 
coast. I said I did. I’ve an uncle in Frattenbury, 
sir. And I’ve sailed in these parts several times. 
He seemed pleased when I told him this.” 

“Anything else?” 

Webb thought a moment. 

“He mentioned he’d be here some days, sir. Said 
he had business. Said he was expected.” 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


39 


“Who by?” 

“I can’t say, sir. Only-” 

“Yes?” 

“When we was in Weymouth he gave me a letter 
to post—and, well-” 

“You read the address?” 

“Well, yes, sir.” 

“Very well. What was it?” 

“To a parson in Frattenbury, sir. A reverend 
gentleman, name of Fittlemore—or something like 
that.” 

“Fittleworth?” asked the superintendent sharply. 

“That’s it, sir; Fittleworth was the name.” 

“Canon Fittleworth,” said the other. “Well, 
that’s a help, anyhow. Now tell me about last 
night.” 

Webb told him how he had had leave to stay 
in Frattenbury, and that Templeton had mentioned 
he was going to dine there. A few more questions, 
and the superintendent glanced over his notes. 

“Well,” he said, “there’ll be an inquest, of course, 
and we shall want you, Webb. What are you think¬ 
ing of doing?” 

Webb hesitated. 

“I don’t much fancy sleeping alone on the Fire - 



40 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


fly, sir. I could get a bed at the inn here, or my 
uncle at Frattenbury will put me up.” 

“All right, so long as you keep in touch with us. 
That’s all for the present. Thank you very much, 
Mr. Proctor. You can go, Webb.” 

Mr. Proctor rose from his chair, crossed the room 
and showed Webb out of the door. Then he took 
down a box from the shelf. 

“Can I offer you a cigar, Superintendent?” 

“Thanks very much.” The policeman lighted his 
cigar, looked over his notes for a few minutes, and 
then said: “You’re a good judge of cigars, Mr. 
Proctor.” 

“I am,” replied the little man with a smile. “This 
is a strange case.” 

“Um,” said the superintendent. “It’s too early 
to form an opinion yet. But one thing is fairly 
obvious. Whoever murdered Mr. Templeton must 
have known he was coming here and must have 
got out to that yacht after he returned from Frat¬ 
tenbury and was aboard her.” 

Mr. Proctor flicked the ash from the cigar he was 
smoking, and observed dryly: 

“Or have got aboard first, and waited for him 


there.” 


A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 


4i 


“What makes you say that?” asked the super¬ 
intendent, looking up quickly. 

“Only because it’s just as obvious as your own 
theory. I thought it might be worth considering.” 

The superintendent reflected for a minute. 

“Yes—it is,” he admitted. “Now I must be going. 
I shall be back shortly.” 

Before he finally left for Frattenbury he pulled 
out to the Firefly and had a few words with the 
detective-sergeant. 

“When you’ve finished here,” he said, “you’d 
better make a few inquiries on shore. Find out 
who owns the boats about here. One of them must 
have been used by the murderer, otherwise the 
dinghy wouldn’t have been here. Get to work 
among the people, and make a note of them, or of 
any strangers. I’m off to see the coroner. Also 
I’ve discovered that Templeton was probably dining 
with Canon Fittleworth last night. At any rate, 
he knew him. I’ll bring the Canon back with me 
if he’s able to come.” 

“Right, sir. I’ll do what I can.” 

After a last injunction to the constable on the 
shore, the superintendent entered his motor and 
drove off. 


42 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“He ain’t took that ’ere man back with him, 
after all,” said the disappointed spectator who had 
fixed the crime onto the unfortunate Jim Webb. 
“And that’s what we pays our police for!” 


CHAPTER IV 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND ON THE 

“firefly” 

Canon Fittleworth had only just returned to 
his house in the Close from the early Sunday service 
in the Cathedral, and had sat down to his break¬ 
fast with his wife and daughter. He was a cheerful- 
looking ecclesiastic, apparently midway between 
forty and fifty, wearing pince-nez over a pair of 
keen brown eyes. 

He had just answered a question put by his 
daughter, and was beginning to attack his egg, when 
a servant came in. 

“If you please, sir, Superintendent Norton wishes 
to speak to you. He says it’s very particular. I’ve 
shown him into the study, sir.” 

“The police!” exclaimed Doris Fittleworth. 
“What have you been doing, father?” 

“I’ve quite a clear conscience, dear. Tell him 
to wait ten minutes,” he added to the servant. 

“Please, sir, he said he must see you at once,” she 
replied. 


43 


44 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Oh, very well,” said the Canon, not pleased to 
be interrupted at his meal. “Keep my toast warm,” 
he added to his wife as he went out of the room. 

“Good morning, Superintendent. You wanted to 
see me!” 

“Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, 
but it’s urgent.” 

“Anything wrong?” 

“I’m afraid so. Will you tell me, please—do you 
know a Mr. Reginald Templeton, and have you 
seen him lately?” 

“Why, of course I do. He’s my cousin. He was 
only dining with me last evening. I hadn’t seen 
him for a long time. What is it?” 

“I’m very sorry to tell you, Canon, that Mr. 
Templeton was discovered on his yacht at Marsh 
Quay this morning, dead.” 

“Dead? Why, he was in the best of health last 
night!” 

“Murdered,” went on the inspector gravely. 

The Canon started, and seized both arms of the 
chair in which he was seated. 

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “This is ter¬ 
rible, Superintendent. Reginald murdered, you 
say?” 

Briefly the superintendent gave him the details, 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 45 

explaining how he had ascertained that the Canon 
knew the murdered man. 

“Exactly. He wrote to me from Weymouth, and 
again from Ryde. I was expecting him last night. 
I hadn’t seen him for six or seven years—he’d been 
abroad. I wanted him to stay the night, but he 
wouldn’t. He was always keen on boating, and was 
enjoying the life, he told me. Would to heaven he 
had stayed!” 

“What time did he leave you?” 

“He got here between five and six. We dined 
early—at seven. He left about half-past eight.” 

“Going straight back to Marsh Quay, I suppose?” 

The superintendent had taken out his notebook. 

“No, he said he had a call to pay first in Fratten- 
bury.” 

“On whom?” asked the other, keenly interested. 

“He didn’t say. He was a very reticent man— 
always. I wondered at the time, because I didn’t 
remember that he knew anyone here besides our¬ 
selves.” 

“I thought perhaps, Canon, you would like to 
see him—in fact, I should wish you to, if you can. 
I have to see the coroner, then—in about a quarter 
of an hour—I can come back and run you down in 
my car.” 


46 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“By all means/’ replied the Canon. “I’ll come 
if you think I can be of any use.” 

“Thank you, Canon, I’m sure it will help us.” 

He went out, and the Canon returned to break 
the terrible news to his family. 

The superintendent drove a little way through 
the ancient city to a quiet, Georgian street, and 
stopped before a solid, square-looking house, which 
bore a brass plate on the door with the inscription, 
“Mr. F. Norwood, Solicitor.” A minute later he 
was in the presence of Mr. Norwood, who rose from 
his chair to greet him. 

Mr. Francis Norwood was one of the best-known 
professional men in Frattenbury and its neighbour¬ 
hood. He had a large and select practice, an old- 
established one inherited from his father. He was 
an austere-looking man, with a hatchet-shaped face, 
large nose, thin, tightly-compressed lips, and old- 
fashioned mutton-chop whiskers. His hair, which 
was inclined to be grey, was thin and carefully 
parted in the middle. He wore dark trousers, a 
black cutaway coat, and black tie with a small 
gold pin. 

He looked the very epitome of a dry, respectable 
lawyer, and eminently suitable for the environment 
of a cathedral city. He had never married— 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 47 

people said unkind things about him in this respect 
—that no woman would accept such a dry stick of 
a man—that he was too fond of himself and too 
close with his money to risk a partner. 

For many years he had held the office of coroner 
—as his father had done before him. Many people 
called him selfish in still holding it. There were 
younger and struggling men who would have been 
glad of the occasional fees, whereas Francis Nor¬ 
wood was reputed wealthy. But this criticism—even 
if he knew it—had no effect upon the staid lawyer. 
He stuck to his post and he stuck to the fees which 
it brought him. 

“Good morning, Superintendent; won’t you sit 
down?” said the lawyer, motioning the other to a 
chair, and reseating himself. “What is it?” 

“A case of murder, I’m afraid, Mr. Norwood.” 

“Murder? Dear, dear! That’s very serious. 
Tell me about it.” 

As the superintendent told his story, the coroner 
sat bolt upright, listening intently, his elbows on 
the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers pressed 
together. 

“Yes,” he said, as the other finished, “a bad case— 
a very bad case. I’ll open the inquiry to-morrow. 
We shall have to adjourn it, of course. Let me see” 


4 8 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

—and he consulted a pocket diary. “Two o’clock 
to-morrow. Will that do?” 

“Quite well, Mr. Norwood. It will give us time 
to get the preliminary facts in order.” 

“Just so. As far as my recollection serves me, 
there is a public-house close to the quay?” 

“The ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ ” 

“Ah, just so. The inquest will take place there. 
You will summon a jury?” 

“Certainly.” 

The coroner folded his hands again. He was an 
extremely stiff individual. 

“This will mean a lot of work for you,” he said. 
“Have you any clue so far?” 

“There’s been no time yet, Mr. Norwood. I left 
the very best man we’ve got at Marsh Quay—De¬ 
tective-Sergeant Colson, an extremely smart fellow.” 

“I see. Exactly. Do you intend to call in the 
services of Scotland Yard?” 

The superintendent smiled. 

“That depends on what the Chief Constable says, 
Mr. Norwood—when I’ve made my report to him. 
But we like, if we can, to get the credit of a case 
like this ourselves. And I’ve great confidence in 
Colson. However, developments will probably 
answer your question.” 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 49 

“Exactly. It’s no affair of mine of course. 
But I hope you’ll take every step to find the 
murderer.” 

“You can trust us for that,” replied the other as 
he rose to go. “Two o’clock to-morrow, then?” 

“Two o’clock to-morrow, Superintendent, repeated 
the coroner. “I’ll be there.” 

He accompanied the policeman out of the room 
and through a big square, stone-paved hall to the 
front door, shaking hands with him stiffly and limply 
as he left. 

A few minutes later, the superintendent was driv¬ 
ing Canon Fittleworth to Marsh Quay. As they 
reached the spot, he pointed out the Firefly. 

“Dear me,” said the Canon, “we were to have 
come over for a sail in her to-morrow. How ter¬ 
ribly sad!” 

When they arrived on the yacht they found Col¬ 
son sitting on deck, smoking. He hardly looked 
at them. The superintendent, who knew his man, 
took the Canon into the little saloon. The body 
had been laid on the table ready for removal; a 
handkerchief was over the face. 

Canon Fittleworth lifted it reverently. 

“Poor fellow!” he exclaimed; “it’s Reginald Tem¬ 
pleton, of course—poor fellow!” 


50 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


He was almost breaking down. The superinten¬ 
dent, a sympathetic and sensitive man himself, said: 

“I’m going to speak to Colson, sir.” 

The other nodded. When he was alone he 
kneeled down, bowed his head, and prayed silently 
for a few minutes. Then, without rising, he looked 
about him mechanically. 

At times of great stress the smallest objects are 
often noticeable. An instance of this strange truth 
occurred just then. The Canon’s gaze fell on some¬ 
thing lying on the floor of the cabin—partly bright 
red and partly shining. With a sort of muffled 
curiosity, he stooped and picked it up. It was a 
cigar band. 

Now there is nothing particularly striking in a 
cigar band. It is a common enough object. True, 
cigar bands vary in their queer little heraldic 
designs and miniature shields, and inscriptions of the 
firms that produced them, in Spanish. But, as the 
Canon looked at that torn object, he suddenly 
started. 

“That’s queer,” he murmured, smoothing it out 
and regarding it intently. He took off his glasses, 
wiped them with his handkerchief, and had another 
look. His brow puckered. Again he said: 

“Queer—very queer.” 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 51 

Now the Canon was entirely ignorant of police 
methods—they had never come within his sphere. 
Also, by virtue of his office and dignity, he was 
accustomed to act on his own initiative. Besides, 
that particular cigar band had led his thoughts far 
away from that scene of death—it was something 
personal that was arresting his attention. Also, 
he had been, all his life, one of those men who are 
reticent up to a point, that point being the exact 
moment when they are ready to lay all their cards 
on the table. He wanted to compare this particular 
bit of red and gold with something else before he 
could be quite certain of the matter that was agitat¬ 
ing his mind. 

These several reasons combined to prevent him 
doing what many a man would have done under 
similar circumstances—calling in the superintendent. 
It never entered his head at that moment that he 
ought to do any such thing. Instead, he took out 
his pocket-case and carefully deposited the cigar 
band within it. 

Then he rose from his knees and looked round 
the cabin, gazed again at the cold, white face on the 
table, spread the handkerchief over it, and slowly 
left the saloon—a great weight on his mind as the 
thought of his murdered cousin pressed itself up- 


52 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


permost. In silence he rejoined the two policemen 
on the deck, took his seat in the boat, and came 
ashore with them. For the time being the incident 
of the cigar band had passed out of his mind. 

Mr. Proctor greeted them. 

“Canon Fittleworth, I presume?” he asked 
politely. “My name is Proctor. May I be allowed 
to express my sympathy, sir? I understand the 
unfortunate gentleman is a relative of yours.” 

“Thank you very much.” 

“And may I venture to ask you both to come in 
and have a glass of sherry and a biscuit? I’m sure 
you both need something after such a strain. It 
will give me much pleasure if you will.” 

“It’s very good of you,” said the Canon. “And 
I won’t refuse.” 

The little man took them into a cosy dining-room 
which overlooked the estuary. On the table was a 
plate of sandwiches, biscuits, a decanter of wine 
and glasses. He helped them to refreshments and 
then said: 

“If you’ll excuse me—pray make yourselves at 
home.” 

“Thank you,” said the superintendent as Mr. 
Proctor left the room. He did not press him to 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 53 

stay, as he wanted a few minutes’ conversation with 
Canon Fittleworth. 

“We shall have to ask you to give formal evi¬ 
dence of identification at the inquest to-morrow, 
Canon. And, of course, you will tell the jury what 
you know of Mr. Templeton—and his movements 
last evening.” 

“Certainly. Though, as a matter of fact, I know 
very little of him. As I told you, he has been 
abroad for some years. He’s a bachelor—and was 
always a rolling stone. He told us something of his 
travels last night—not very much.” 

The superintendent nodded. “There are one or 
two questions I want to ask, please.” 

“By all means.” 

“Tell me—do you think Mr. Templeton had any 
object in coming to Marsh Quay other than paying 
you a visit?” 

“Yes,” answered the Canon, “I feel sure he had. 
He spoke vaguely of having business in the neigh¬ 
bourhood—but I haven’t the slightest idea what it 
was—except, yes—now I come to think of it he did 
drop a hint.” 

“What was it?” asked the superintendent, leaning 
forward. 

“He said that ever since he landed in Plymouth 


54 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


he’d been carrying about something valuable that 
made him a bit anxious—that he was glad to be 
getting rid of.” 

“Did he say what it was?” 

“No. He only mentioned it casually.” 

“H’m,” mused the other, “there may be some¬ 
thing in this. It may mean the motive for the crime 
—robbery.” 

“That is quite possible. I wish he’d told us more.” 

“Exactly. One other question. You say he was 
going to see someone in Frattenbury last eve¬ 
ning-” 

“Yes—but I haven’t the slightest idea who it 
was.” 

“I know—but I was going to ask, did he give 
you a hint of anyone else he knew in this neigh¬ 
bourhood?” 

The Canon thought carefully before he replied: 

“Only that, as I said, he referred to some business 
that he had in hand here.” 

The superintendent was silent. He drank his 
glass of wine and looked out of the window. Colson 
was coming up the garden path. In a few seconds 
he entered the room. 

“There’s something I must tell you at once, sir.” 
And he looked at the Canon. 



WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 55 

“Go on,” said the superintendent. “We are speak¬ 
ing in confidence,” he added. 

“Certainly,” said the Canon. 

“I’ve just been talking to a man named Gale 
who was here all day yesterday. He saw the Firefly 
come in and anchor, and what’s more he saw Temple¬ 
ton row himself across to the other side—yonder,” 
and he pointed out of the window, “and reappear 
after about three-quarters of an hour with a Jew 
named Moss, who lives in that house you can see 
above the trees. He recognised him distinctly, even 
at that distance. Then Templeton pulled himself 
back to the yacht—and afterwards came ashore 
here.” 

“Good!” exclaimed the superintendent, springing 
to his feet. “We’ll interview this man Moss at 
once.” 

“I should like to come too, if I may,” said Canon 
Fittleworth. 

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Ah— 
Webb is about still. We’ll get him to row us across. 
Come along, Colson.” 

Arrived on the other side of the estuary, they 
made their way through the woody path and in a 
few minutes came out on an open space where the 


56 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

house was standing. It was a modern two-storied 
villa, with a small garden and a garage. 

The superintendent rang the front door bell. The 
door was opened by a woman of about five and 
thirty. Her face paled a little as she saw the police 
uniform. 

“Does Mr. Moss live here?” 

“Yes, sir—when he’s down here for week-ends.” 

“Is he in?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Do you know where we can find him?” 

“He’s gone back to London, sir, with Mrs. Moss.” 

“Gone back to London, when?” 

“This morning, sir—by the early train from Frat- 
tenbury. My husband motored them both into 
Frattenbury.” 

“Do you live here with your husband?” 

“Yes, sir. We’re caretakers all the week. I do 
the cooking, and Mrs. Moss brings down a maid 
when they come for week-ends.” 

“Is your husband in?” 

“Yes, sir—I hope there’s nothing the matter?” 

“Nothing for you to disturb yourself about. Will 
you call your husband, please, and come back your¬ 
self.” 

The man who appeared was a little defiant, but 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 57 

the superintendent cautioned him sharply, and he 
answered the questions he put—though rather sul¬ 
lenly. 

“You drove your master and mistress into Frat- 
tenbury this morning ?” 

“Yes—I did.” 

“At what time?” 

“To catch the 7.35 up train.” 

“When did you get the order—last night?” 

“No—this morning.” 

“It must have been very early?” 

“Soon after six o’clock.” 

“Do they often go up by this Sunday morning 
train?” 

“No, sir—I never knew them do it before. It’s 
generally on Mondays they leave—or, leastways, 
Mr. Moss always does.” 

“Do either of you know where he lives in Lon¬ 
don?” 

“Not his private house, sir—we forward any let¬ 
ters that come—or write to him at his business 
address.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“13a, Hatton Garden, sir.” 

The superintendent and Colson exchanged sig¬ 
nificant glances. 


58 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“That seems to point out what his trade is,” said 
the latter. 

The superintendent nodded, then he went on with 
his questions. 

“Did your master receive any visitor yesterday 
afternoon? Now, be careful, please.” 

The woman shot a glance at her husband—who 
only stared stonily back, with his hands in his 
pockets. 

“I—I didn’t let anyone in, sir.” 

“Oh, you didn’t. But you saw someone?—you 
must tell me, please.” 

“I—I happened to be looking out of the window, 
sir—and Mr. Moss was sitting on a chair on the 
lawn—with another gentleman.” 

“What was he like?” 

“I couldn’t say, sir. I didn’t notice him par¬ 
ticularly. And he had his back to me.” 

“Very well. What time was this?” 

“Somewhere between four and five, sir.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Mr. Moss must have brought him indoors, sir. 
I heard them talking in his study, as I came by, 
but I never saw him.” 

“Did you hear anything they said?” 

“No, sir—I should scorn to listen.” 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 59 

The superintendent thought for a moment, then 
he said: 

“Thank you—that’s all.” 

The man stepped forward. 

“I should like to know if there’s any trouble 
about, sir. We’re decent folk, my wife and I, and 
we don’t want to be mixed up in no rows—especially 
if the police are in it.” 

“That’s all right, my man—don’t worry. We only 
wanted to see your master about this visitor of his. 
Another time will do very well. Good day.” 

As they walked back to the boat, the Canon re¬ 
marked: 

“We don’t seem to have got very much informa¬ 
tion here.” 

“No, but it’s important,” replied the superintend¬ 
ent, “and we’ve got to find out why this Mr. Moss 
left in such a hurry. We’ll very soon get onto 
his track.” 

Colson nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing. He 
was a silent man when at his work—except when 
he was drawing out information. Then he could be 
companionable enough. But he rarely made re¬ 
marks as to probable or possible results while he 
was actually investigating a case. 

When they came back to Marsh Quay, Colson 


6o 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


was left in charge, and the constable instructed to 
warn men for the jury. The body had been carried 
over to the “Mariner’s Arms” and laid on a bed in 
one of Mrs. Yates’s rooms. The superintendent 
drove Canon Fittleworth back to Frattenbury, and 
then went on to report to Major Renshaw, the Chief 
Constable, who lived just outside the city. 

That evening, Canon Fittleworth sat in his com¬ 
fortable study, discussing the events of the day with 
his wife and daughter. He put his hand in his pocket 
for something, and felt his case there. Then he re¬ 
membered. 

“Oh!” he said, “that reminds me.” 

“What, dear?” asked his wife. 

“Wait a minute.” 

He got up, unlocked a cabinet, and took out a 
box of cigars. Then he produced the red and gold 
band from his pocket, and carefully compared it 
with those on the cigars in the box. 

“Look here,” he said, as he went back to his seat; 
“I found this lying on the floor in the cabin where 
poor Reginald was murdered.” 

“Poor man,” said his daughter, as she took the 
cigar band to look at it; “do you think that he was 
smoking when he was murdered?” 

“No,” said the Canon; “Reginald did not smoke. 


WHAT CANON FITTLEWORTH FOUND 61 


I offered him a cigar last night and he refused it. 
He said he hadn’t smoked for years, and he disliked 
it.” 

“Oh, daddy,” exclaimed the girl, “you ought to 
have shown this to the police!” 

“I suppose I ought—yes—I never thought of it. 
However, I shall bring it forward at the inquest 
to-morrow. But there’s something very queer about 
it,” he went on. 

“What is it, Charles?” asked his wife. 

“Why, it’s off one of my own cigars!” 

“Off one of your own cigars?” exclaimed his 
daughter. 

“Look for yourself,” and he passed the box over 
to them. 

“But,” said the girl, when they had both compared 
the band with the others, “anyone might smoke the 
same sort of cigar.” 

“No, they mighn’t. That’s just the point,” re¬ 
plied the Canon dryly. “This box was sent to me 
by my Spanish friend, De Garcia—you remember 
him? Well, he wrote to say they are a special brand 
reserved for the planters. They never sell them 
anywhere. What do you think of that?” 


CHAPTER V 


DETECTIVE-SERGEANT COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 

“Mrs. Yates,” said Detective-Sergeant Colson, as 
he finished a modest meal, served at his request 
in the “Mariner’s Arms,” “I am thinking of making 
my quarters here, at all events till the inquest is 
over. Can I have a room?” 

“I’m only too glad to have you, sir,” replied the 
buxom landlady. “I’m not much given to be afraid, 
but I don’t like the idea of being alone in the house 
with a corpse, and I was thinking of asking a neigh¬ 
bour to sleep here.” 

“You’re a widow, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, sir—these six years.” 

“Well, I’ll be here to-night. I’m going into Frat- 
tenbury presently, and shall cycle out, probably a 
bit late.” 

“You can have the room Mr. Grayson had, sir. 
It’s a pleasant one, above this, looking out over the 
water.” 

“Who is Mr. Grayson?” he asked. 

62 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 63 

“A young gentleman—an artist—who’s been 
lodging here nearly a week. He left early this morn¬ 
ing.” 

“Oh, did he?” said the detective, lighting his pipe. 
“This seems a rare place for people leaving early 
on Sunday mornings.” 

“Eh, sir?” 

“Oh, never mind. Tell me about this lodger of 
yours. What time did he go away?” 

“It was just before the murder was discovered, 
sir. He came downstairs early this morning, and 
said would I get him some breakfast because he’d 
suddenly changed his plans and was going away. 
Seemed strange, didn’t it, sir? A nice, quiet young 
gentleman he was, too.” 

“How did he go?” 

“On his bicycle, sir—same as he came here. Oh, 
he was a perfect gentleman, never gave me trouble, 
and paid up all right.” 

The detective had taken out his notebook. 

“I wish you’d give me a description of this young 
man, Mrs. Yates,” he said. 

“Oh, Mr. Colson, sir,” she exclaimed, “you don’t 
mean to say as how you think ’twas him as done it?” 

The detective laughed. 

“Come, come, Mrs. Yates,” he said; “I never said 


64 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


it was so bad as that. But, you see, we policemen 
like to know about all the people that were near 
a crime. That’s why I’m asking you to help me. 
The smallest evidence may be valuable, and this 
young man may have noticed something yesterday. 
You see, he left before the murder was discovered, 
so he couldn’t know we wanted him, could he?” 

Mrs. Yates, all suspicions removed by Colson’s 
bland manner, gave him, so far as she could re¬ 
member, a description of her lodger, which the de¬ 
tective carefully took down. When she had finished, 
he said: 

“Thank you, Mrs. Yates; excellent! You really 
ought to belong to the force, you remember every¬ 
thing so well. Observation is a very great gift, and 
you’ve got it. Splendid! ” 

Mrs. Yates smiled a smile of satisfaction. She 
was not proof against flattery. The detective saw 
he had scored a point. 

“Now I’m going to take you into my confidence,” 
he went on blandly. “I’ll let you into a little secret. 
We detectives aren’t half as clever as people think 
we are, and I don’t mind telling you—quite between 
ourselves, you know—that this is going to be a diffi¬ 
cult case. You wouldn’t think it, perhaps, but, up 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 65 

to the present moment, I haven’t the slightest idea 
as to who committed the murder.” 

Mrs. Yates had sat down in a chair and was 
regarding him fixedly, taking it all in. 

“Lor’ sir,” she exclaimed, “you don’t say so?” 

He nodded gravely. 

“It’s quite true,” he said, “and I want you to help 
me.” 

“Me, sir? What can I do?” 

“You’re a discreet woman, Mrs. Yates—a very 
sensible woman. And I’m sure you can hold your 
tongue if you like.” 

“I never was one to gossip.” 

“I knew it! Well, now, when I come back this 
evening I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. You 
put some supper up in my room—show me now 
how I can get up to it without being seen—and 
if anyone asks where I am, you can tell them the 
truth, that I’m gone into Frattenbury, see?” 

Mrs. Yates, who was almost trembling with ex¬ 
citement, showed him how he could get in by a 
back door she would leave unlatched. She also 
showed him a shed where he could put his bicycle. 

“And one other thing, Mrs. Yates,” he said; 
“you’re going to keep your mouth shut, but you 
must keep your ears open. You’re sure to have men 


66 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


in to-night discussing the murder. If you hear them 
say anything about having seen Mr. Templeton— 
or any strangers about—you make a note of it and 
let me know.” 

“I will, sir. I’ll do what I can.” 

Colson took his hat and stick and a dispatch-case 
which he had brought over in the morning. 

When he got outside the inn he walked over to 
Constable Gadsden, who was still on the spot. Quite 
a number of people were about, for the news had 
spread rapidly, and anything so gruesome as the 
central scene of a murder is attractive. 

“Well, Gadsden,” said he, drawing him to one 
side, “you haven’t let anyone go on board the yacht 
—no newspaper men, or anyone?” 

The burly policeman grinned. 

“Trust me for that, sergeant.” 

“Mind you don’t. I’m going into Frattenbury 
now. I’ll send a man out to relieve you.” 

“Thank you, sergeant. I’ve found out something 
since I saw you.” 

“What?” 

The policeman opened his pocket-book. No self- 
respecting constable ever reports to a superior officer 
without a reference to this mysterious compendium. 

“Man o’ the name o’ Simmonds—George Sim- 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 67 

monds—lives in the cottage yonder—states that he 
was walking along the field path yesterday and met 
a man of the description 0’ Mr. Templeton going 
into Frattenbury—between half-past five and six.” 

“May be useful,” replied the detective. “More 
useful still, though, if he’d seen him coming back. 
If there’s anything else to report you can do so to 
the superintendent when you get back to Fratten¬ 
bury.” 

He himself took the field path to Frattenbury, and 
not the road. For half a mile or so the path ran 
by the side of the estuary, separated from the shore 
by a low hedge. Then, just as one got over a stile, 
it turned abruptly and led through a series of marshy 
meadows. There had been rain a few days before, 
and in places the path was damp, showing a number 
of footprints. 

Just by one of the stiles was a particularly im¬ 
pressionable bit of ground. The stile had a high 
step, from which one naturally jumped and left well- 
defined footprints. Colson seated himself on the 
stile, opened his dispatch-case, and drew out a shoe. 
Then he got down into the path and investigated 
all the footprints narrowly, testing them by measur¬ 
ing them and comparing the results with the shoe. 

Presently he gave a little grunt of satisfaction. 


68 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


The shoe exactly fitted one of the footprints. Walk¬ 
ing slowly on, he was easily able to trace these 
particular footprints going towards Frattenbury. 

“Doesn’t help much,” he said to himself, “but—ah, 
here’s what I want.” 

For he caught sight of a similar footprint—and 
then another—pointing in the reverse direction. 
Several more were apparent as he walked on. 

“That settles it,” he exclaimed; “Templeton 
walked back to Marsh Quay by the same route. 
I’m glad I thought to bring one of the shoes he was 
wearing with me. Now for the other test.” 

The other test was still more simple. Every now 
and then, plainly defined, was a small square hole 
showing in the soft soil, about three-eighths of an 
inch in diameter. The detective stuck the walking- 
stick he was carrying into the ground beside one of 
these holes. It bore one of those tapering, square 
ferrules which are common in Alpine walking-sticks. 
When he removed it from the soil, the impression 
was exactly the same as the other. 

A less shrewd man than Colson would have been 
perfectly satisfied with the result, and would have 
made the very natural deduction that Templeton 
had carried the walking-stick. Indeed, there was 
every reason to deduce this. But Colson was not 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 69 

only a quick-witted man—he was also a slow and 
careful thinker. It was his method, when he had 
discovered any clue, to work out every possible ex¬ 
planation from it mentally raising objections to each 
deduction. More than once this habit of his had 
prevented him acting on hasty and erroneous con¬ 
clusions, and he knew the value of it well. 

Besides, this was the biggest case in which he had 
been engaged. Never yet had he been called upon 
to investigate so serious a crime as murder, except 
in one instance, where everything had been fairly 
obvious from the first. So, for his own credit and 
chances of promotion, he was anxious to make no 
mistake. 

Therefore, having turned the matter over in his 
mind, when he reached Frattenbury, instead of go¬ 
ing straight to the police station to make his report, 
he called on Canon Fittleworth. This was in the 
afternoon, and, it will be remembered, before the 
Canon had compared the cigar band with those in 
his box. 

“Fm sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but you may 
be able to tell me something. When Mr. Templeton 
left your house last night, who showed him out?** 

“I did,” replied the Canon. 


70 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Good. Now can you remember if he was carry¬ 
ing a walking-stick when he left?” 

They were standing in the hall as they were 
talking. 

“I can tell you exactly,” said the Canon. “He 
had a stick when he came here—this is it,” and he 
drew one from the rack, “but when we opened the 
door last night it was clouding up and looked like 
rain, and the glass was falling. Templeton said he 
didn’t want to risk getting wet, as he suffered from 
rheumatism. I lent him an umbrella. By the way, 
I saw it in the cabin of the yacht, now I come to 
think of it.” 

Colson had taken the stick into his hand and 
was examining the point of it. He lifted his eye¬ 
brows and gave a low whistle. The ferrule was of 
the Alpine pattern. He carefully compared it with 
the one he had brought from Marsh Quay. The 
sizes were exactly the same. 

“What is it?” asked Canon Fittleworth. 

“Only a curious coincidence, that throws me en¬ 
tirely out of my reckoning. I’ll take this stick, 
please. Oh, by the way, I went through all the 
papers I could find on the Firefly. There was noth¬ 
ing particular. Only, perhaps you can throw some 
light on this one.” 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 


7 1 

He took a letter from his pocket and handed it 
to the Canon. It bore an address in North-West 
London, and the writer merely said he was glad to 
hear that Templeton had arrived in England, and 
hoped that, when he was tired of yachting, he would 
run up to see him, as there were two or three matters 
of business to discuss. It was signed “A. F. Crosby.” 

“Do you know who it is?” 

“Why, yes,” said the Canon. “I ought to have 
thought of it before, but this terrible event has put 
things out of my mind. Templeton mentioned his 
name last night. He said he was going up to town 
shortly to see his lawyer, Anthony Crosby. I know 
him slightly myself. I ought to have written to him. 
I’ll do so at once.” 

“Oh, that’s capital,” said Colson. “Don’t you 
trouble to write. We’ll ’phone up to the London 
police, and ask them to see him at once. We must 
have him down to the inquest to-morrow, if possible. 
He may be a great help. Thank you very much. 
I must be off.” 

When he arrived at the police station he found! 
the superintendent in consultation with the Chief 
Constable, Major Renshaw, a typical military man 
with close-cropped moustache. 


72 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

The two men welcomed the detective-sergeant 
eagerly. 

“Well,” said the superintendent, “we’re very 
anxious to know developments. Have you had any 
luck?” 

“Yes, sir—several things have come to light, and 
there may be something to go upon, though I’m 
still very much in the dark. First of all, though, 
I’ll get you to have this description ’phoned to the 
police throughout the county—a young man, a 
cyclist, staying at the ‘Mariner’s Arms,’ who left 
suddenly early this morning. The landlady says he 
was apparently riding into Frattenbury. We ought 
to get hold of him in any case.” 

“Most decidedly,” said the Chief Constable. “It’s 
important.” 

After this was done, and the matter of Mr. Crosby 
taken in hand, the superintendent told Colson that 
he had telephoned to London about Moss, but, as 
yet, there were no developments. Then the detective 
opened his dispatch-case and spread an assortment 
of articles on the table. 

“I made a pretty searching examination,” he said, 
“but I’m afraid there are not many results so far. 
The lockers and portmanteau mostly contained 
clothes—and some money. There’s only one letter 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 


73 

—and there weren’t many—that seemed to bear on 
the case, and it isn’t signed. Here it is, in an en¬ 
velope with the Frattenbury postmark, posted to 
the G.P.O., Ryde. And it’s typewritten.” 

The letter proved to be a half-sheet of nondescript 
notepaper, with the words: 

“I shall he at home to discuss matters if you will 
call next Saturday evening after 8.30 —not later 
than 9.” 

That was all. A grim smile lit up the face of the 
Chief Constable as he read it, shaking his head. 

“That’s not much help,” he said. “Of course it’s 
the appointment Canon Fittleworth spoke of. What 
next?” 

The detective produced a blotting-pad. 

“There’s not much here,” he said, “but if you 
hold it before a looking-glass you can make out 
what I think to be bits of two letters.” 

Across the top of the blotter, by holding it in 
front of the glass portions of words appeared as 
follows: 


e y u on turd ft on, 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


74 

and then the signature, freshly blotted and quite 
plain: 

Y rs f ithfully, 

R. Templeton. 

“ ‘See you on Saturday afternoon/ ” said the 
superintendent. “That ought to be plain enough. 
It looks like his appointment with Moss. We know 
he went there.” 

“That’s it,” said the detective. “Now try the 
other. That’s a puzzler.” 

For some time the two men scrutinised the blot¬ 
ting-paper. The ink marks were faint and broken, 
and in most cases only isolated letters, or bits of 
words. Finally, they agreed with Colson that the 
result was this: 

a d ver zr ice s o ion & roo 
s is nal 

“Well,” said the Chief Constable, “you’ll be a 
smart fellow if you make anything out of that — 
even if it’s worth anything. What next?” 

“I went through his pockets. There were no pa¬ 
pers of any kind in them. That looks suspicious. A 
gentleman in his position would hardly go about 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 


75 

without a pocket-book or something. There was 
loose cash in the trousers pockets—and in the waist¬ 
coat pocket I found this.” 

He produced a very small bag of chamois leather, 
with a loose string tied to it to fasten it. 

“Look!” he said, as he shook something out on 
the table. 

The two men started. A brilliant coruscation of 
light flashed before them. It was a diamond the 
size of a pea. 

“Uncut,” said the Major, as he took it up to ex¬ 
amine it; “in the rough at present, but still bril¬ 
liant. It’s worth a heap of money. And he came 
from South Africa? Where are the rest?” 

“Ah,” said the superintendent, “and where does 
Moss come in?” 

“There’s something else,” said Colson, “and I’m 
not sure whether it may not be the best clue of all— 
if we can find the owner of it.” 

And he laid the two walking-sticks on the table. 

“This one,” he went on, taking up the one the 
Canon had given him, “was carried by Templeton 
when he walked into Frattenbury yesterday after¬ 
noon. I’ve traced the marks of it along the field 
path. But he didn’t take it back with him—Canon 
Fittleworth lent him an umbrella. And this one,” 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


76 

he added, taking up the other, “I found under the 
stern seat of the dinghy. I’d almost made up my 
mind it had belonged to Templeton, but inquiry from 
the Canon seems to show it didn’t. After I’d found 
it I questioned Templeton’s man—Webb—though I 
took care not to let him see it.” 

“Why not?” asked the Chief Constable. 

“Because, sir, I never like to give anything away 
if I can possibly help it; and I thought, even then, 
that it might possibly have belonged to someone 
else. What I wanted to find out from Webb was 
whether there had been more than one walking-stick 
aboard the Firefly. And there hadn’t. So now we 
know that this stick must have been left by someone 
else who went out to the yacht.” 

“Exactly,” said the superintendent. “And some¬ 
body else knows it, too.” 

“Who?” asked Major Renshaw. 

The superintendent and Colson exchanged mean¬ 
ing glances, and answered simultaneously: 

“The man who left it there.” 

And Colson added: 

“He made a bad mistake. And it’s mistakes that 
are the best clues. That’s my experience.” 

The Chief Constable and the superintendent ex¬ 
amined the stick carefully. It was a very ordinary 


COLSON DISCOVERS CLUES 


77 

plain ash walking-stick, with a crook handle. The 
only noticeable thing about it was that a small piece 
had been chipped off the handle. Otherwise there 
was nothing remarkable about it. 

Colson sat lost in thought. Presently his face 
cleared a little. 

“I’ve got an idea,” he said; “it’s only a sort of 
forlorn hope. But I may as well try it. By the way, 
I promised Gadsden he should be relieved, sir,” 
he added to the superintendent. “He’s been at Marsh 
Quay since early morning.” 

The superintendent touched a bell, and a con¬ 
stable entered. 

“Is Peters in?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Tell him to report for duty.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

Peters came in, and the superintendent gave him 
some brief instructions. Then Colson spoke. 

“I want you to do exactly what I say, Peters,” 
he said. “When you get to Marsh Quay it will still 
be daylight. Ride your bicycle there and leave it 
close to the shore. Then take one of the little canoes 
and paddle out to the yacht—the Firefly. Don’t in 
any way touch the dinghy that’s moored to her, 


78 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

Get on the yacht’s deck and stay there. Do you 
understand?” 

“Yes, sergeant.” 

“As soon as it’s struck ten—or thereabouts—keep 
your eye fixed on the upper window in the ‘Mariner’s 
Arms.’ There may be a light in the room. Don’t 
take any notice of that. But directly you see the 
flash of a red light in the window, get into the canoe 
and paddle ashore. Make a bit of noise about it. 
Leave the canoe in the water—the tide will be flow¬ 
ing—and make the painter fast to one of the posts 
you will find—well up the little bank. Then light 
your bicycle lamp and ride off—back to Fratten- 
bury. I shan’t want you any more. If there’s any¬ 
body about, sing out ‘Good night’ to them—let ’em 
see you’re going off. You understand?” 

“I’ll do it, sergeant.” 

“That’s all, then. Good night, Major, if I don’t 
see you again. I’ll drop in,” he added to the superin¬ 
tendent, “before I go back to Marsh Qua}'. I’ve 
got a little job first. And I want this walking-stick.” 

He went out, carrying the stick he had found in 
the dinghy. 


CHAPTER VI 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 

Colson walked away from the police station till 
he came to a shop. It was Sunday and, of course, the 
shutters were up, but he rang the bell at the side 
door. It was opened by the proprietor, a thin, sandy- 
haired man, who shook hands with the detective. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Colson,” he said, “come in, 
won’t you? We were just sitting down to tea. The 
wife will be pleased, I’m sure, if you’ll join us.” 

“No, thank you, Mr. Blake. I’m sorry to disturb 
you. But I want you to do something for me— 
if you will?” 

Blake looked at him with interest. 

“Anything about this murder at Marsh Quay?” 
he asked. “I heard you were down there.” 

“Now, look here, Mr. Blake, you and I know one 
another pretty well. Don’t you ask me any questions 
about that, please. I believe you’re a discreet man, 
or I shouldn’t have come to you. Will you hold your 
tongue about it? About what I’m going to ask you?” 

79 


8 o 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Of course I will, Mr. Colson.” 

“Very well. I want you to sell me a walking- 
stick—on a Sunday. Can we go into your shop?” 

“Certainly. Come along.” 

He led the way into the shop, and turned on the 
electric light. Whereat it was obvious that Mr. 
Blake dealt in tobacco, and those other articles which 
generally characterise a tobacconist’s trade. 

“What sort of a stick do you want?” 

“One exactly like this—if you’ve got one.” 

Blake took the stick in his hand and examined it 
carefully. 

“You don’t know that stick, I suppose? You 
haven’t seen it before?” asked Colson. 

“Can’t say I have. It’s ordinary enough, eh? 
With a Swiss ferrule, too. Might have been bought 
in Switzerland, and might not. We keep a few of 
these ferrules now—some of our customers prefer 
them. Let’s see—it ought to be easy to find one 
like it.” 

A bundle of sticks was laid on the counter. Pres¬ 
ently one was found very closely resembling that 
brought by Colson. 

“All right,” he said, “this will do—if you can put 
another ferrule on it.” 

“That’s easily done. Let’s be sure it’s the exact 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 81 

length—ah—we must take half an inch off it. If 
you’re going to palm it off on anyone as the original, 
it’s a hint to remember that nothing would give it 
away so much as a difference, however small, in 
length. Half a minute. My tools are at the back 
of the shop.” 

When he returned with the two sticks he said: 

“You’ve noticed yours is chipped a bit in the 
handle?” 

“I know. I’ll make the other all right.” 

“Rub some dirt in when you’ve done, with a 
touch of oil. But, there, I expect you know your 
own job, Mr. Colson. Won’t you stay and have 
tea?” 

“I’m busy, thanks.” 

Colson’s next rendezvous was his own home, a 
pleasant little house a few minutes’ walk outside the 
city walls. And the pleasant little house contained a 
pleasant little wife, who bustled about to get tea. 

“I was wondering if you’d be home to-day, Bob,” 
she said. 

“I shall have to be away to-night, my dear. This 
is going to be a big case, I think.” 

“Any progress?” 

He nodded. 


82 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“A little,” he said; “tell you all about it when 
I’ve finished tea.” 

No one else knew it, but Colson always took his 
wife into his confidence. He knew the value of a 
woman’s intuition. And many a time she had helped 
him at his work with her quick wit. 

So, seated by the fire, carefully cutting the stick 
he had just bought with his knife, he told her all 
that had happened. 

“Have you any idea who did it, Bob?” 

“Not the slightest. But there are one or two 
strong suspicions, eh?” 

She nodded. 

“You think robbery was the motive?” 

“Looks like it—if that little bag had more dia¬ 
monds in it.” 

“But why should the thief not take the bag itself 
•—and why should he put it back in Mr. Templeton’s 
waistcoat pocket?” 

“Ask me another,” he replied. 

“Well, here’s another, then, Bob. Suppose we 
grant that the murderer carried this stick. Why was 
it in the dinghy. You yourself say he must have 
taken another boat to get to the yacht, because the 
dinghy was fast to her. How came that sjick in 
the dinghy then?” 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 


83 

“I know,” he said slowly. “And it’s puzzled me, 
too.” 

“Unless-” 

“Unless what?” 

“Unless Mr. Templeton took someone on board 
first, someone who laid his walking-stick in the boat 
while Mr. Templeton rowed him out, and left it 
there when he was brought back to shore.” 

Colson brought his hand down on his knee with a 
smack. 

“Good! ” he ejaculated. “There may be something 
in that. It might not belong to the murderer at 
all. But I’ll test it, all the same.” 

“By the way,” went on his wife, “which side of the 
path were the prints of the stick?” 

The detective looked at her with admiration. 

“You see that, do you? Well done! They were 
on the right-hand side as I walked into Fratten- 
bury. That’s what made me think—what I’ve proved 
from Canon Fittleworth—that Templeton carried it. 
A man generally carries his stick in his right hand.” 

She smiled a little as she gazed into the fire, 
pleased with the compliment. 

He had finished cutting the stick now, and was 
comparing it with the original. Then he rubbed in 


84 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

some dirt and oil. The two sticks looked exactly 
alike. 

“Let me see,” said his wife. 

She handled them lightly. 

“There’s a tiny knob just here,” and she showed 
him it on the new stick. 

“Bravo! One to you. I’ll have that off.” 

With the most careful scrutiny they both com¬ 
pared the two sticks. The work was completed. 
Colson rose to go. 

“Now, dear,” he said, “put some things for the 
night into my bag and strap it on my bike, please. 
I’ll be back presently. Also, strap on this stick.” 

“I’ll wrap it up in brown paper first,” she said. 
“You can’t be too careful.” 

He kissed her, and went to the police station. 
Nothing fresh had transpired. He left the stick he 
had found on the dinghy at the station, wrote out 
his report, talked over matters with the superinten¬ 
dent, and finally went home to get his bicycle. 

Colson was an exceedingly careful man, and in¬ 
stead of taking the Marsh Quay road at once, he 
started out of the city in the opposite direction and 
rode by a circuitous route till he reached the southern 
road by a by-way. When he came to the turning 
that led to Marsh Quay, he put out his lamp and 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 


85 

rode carefully through the darkness, congratulating 
himself when he reached the “Mariner’s Arms” that 
he had not passed a single person. 

Mrs. Yates had provided a tempting supper of 
cold meat, pickles, cheese and beer, and while the 
detective was doing full justice to it, came into his 
room. 

“They’ve all gone now, sir,” she said; “there’s 
no one else in the house.” 

“That’s all right. Well, I suppose they talked 
about the murder, eh?” 

“Nothing else, Mr. Colson. A lot o’ rubbish they 
talked, too. There’s nothing I overheard ’em say 
that’s worth mentioning.” 

“I see. Well, now, look here, Mrs. Yates. I want 
you to leave the front door on the latch, and if you 
hear me go downstairs in the night, don’t you take 
any notice, see?” 

“Very good, sir. Anything more you want?” 

“No, thank you, Mrs. Yates; you can clear away. 
Only, don’t take my glass. I haven’t finished your 
excellent beer yet.” 

When she had bid him good night, he lighted his 
pipe and leaned back in his chair, thinking over the 
events of the day, sipping his beer from time to 
time. Presently he looked at his watch. It was a 


86 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


little after ten. Taking a small piece of red glass 
from his pocket, he lifted the lamp from the table 
and approached the window with it. He held the 
bit of glass in front of the lamp for a few minutes 
and then put out the light. 

He opened the window. It was a cloudy night and 
very dark. He could hear Gadsden paddling himself 
ashore, and could just discern a dim form as he 
landed. Gadsden was making plenty of noise. He 
lighted his bicycle lamp, mounted his machine, and 
rode off, sounding his bell as he did so. Colson heard 
him shout out “Good night” when he was a little 
way down the road. 

He sat by the window for some little time. Then, 
first putting on a pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes, 
and taking with him the stick he had brought from 
Frattenbury, first unwrapping it from its brown 
paper covering, he slipped quietly downstairs and 
went out. 

Very carefully picking his way, he went down to 
the shore. It was a perfectly quiet night, the silence 
only broken by the ripple of the tide flowing up the 
estuary. He looked around him. Only one light was 
burning—in a window of Mr. Proctor’s house. The 
latter had evidently not yet gone to bed. 

Colson unhitched the painter from the post, slowly, 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 87 

without making a sound, launched the canoe, and 
paddled out in silence. Arrived beside the dinghy, 
he placed the walking-stick well under the seat, 
where he had found the original, and returned just 
as quietly to the shore. 

Before he went back to the inn he took careful 
stock of another canoe that was close to the shore, 
and gave a nod of satisfaction. Then he returned to 
his room and waited and watched. 

As he had said, it was a forlorn hope and he 
hardly expected that anything would come of it. 
It was more than probable that the murderer was 
miles away by this time. And yet, if that stick had 
belonged to him, so far as Colson knew at present, 
it was the only clue to the mystery. And whoever 
had left it in the dinghy must know that as well. 
The point that Colson was building upon was the 
fact that the stick had been stowed away under the 
seat of the dinghy and was not found on board the 
yacht itself. If it belonged to the man who had 
committed the crime, there was just the chance that 
he might calculate that little notice had been taken 
of the dinghy. And it would be worth something 
to him to get it back. 

It was some time after midnight that Colson gave 
a start and stood tense at the window. A slight 


88 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


sound had disturbed him. Straining his eyes through 
the darkness, he could just discern a form apparently 
bending over one of the canoes on the shore. Then 
he saw the form straighten itself and walk a little 
distance away. He lost sight of it, but in a few 
moments it returned. Again it bent down. 

“He’s unfastening the painter,” murmured the de¬ 
tective. Then he could see a man get into the canoe, 
and the next moment he could hear the slight splash 
of a paddle. The unknown was making for the 
yacht. 

Colson felt the little automatic pistol he carried in 
his pocket—he was taking no risks. Quickly he 
made his way downstairs, opened the door and went 
out, crouching low. It was his intention to get down 
to the shore, lie hidden behind one of the boats, 
and catch the unknown unawares as he landed. He 
looked across the water. The canoe was alongside 
the dinghy now. He had to act quickly to get to his 
hiding-place. 

Then the unlucky thing happened. He caught his 
foot in a low post, and went sprawling on the stones 
with a crash that rang out in the still night. 

Colson swore roundly beneath his breath, picked 
himself up, and rushed to the water’s edge. He 
knew he was discovered. Then, to his dismay, he 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 


89 

heard the splash of the paddle and could just see the 
canoe shooting out beyond the yacht into the estuary. 
He rushed for one of the other canoes, whipped 
out his knife, cut the painter, and pushed her into 
the water. But as he stepped in he swore again. 

“Confound my luck,” he muttered; “there’s no 
paddle. That’s what he was up to.” 

Looking out over the estuary, he saw the dim 
form of the canoe and its occupant rapidly shooting 
up with the tide towards Frattenbury. By the time 
he had found the paddle—thrown on the grass thirty 
yards away or so—it was too late. The tide was 
running like a mill-stream. 

Again cursing his bad luck, he paused for a minute 
to reflect. What could he do? Nothing. The man 
might land on either bank, or at the extremity of 
the estuary—anywhere. For a moment he thought 
of mounting his bicycle, but the only road it was 
possible to ride was round by Frattenbury. To at¬ 
tempt to follow up by running along the side of the 
estuary in such a dark night would be equally fruit¬ 
less for fast going. The canoe would be running up 
that tide race with great speed, and the occupant 
had every chance of escaping. Marsh Quay had 
neither telephone nor telegraph; it was impossible 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


90 

to head him off by sending a message to the Frat- 
tenbury police. 

Colson shook his fist at the estuary, a disappointed 
man. To make quite sure that the unknown had 
come for the walking-stick he paddled out to the 
dinghy. It was a foregone conclusion. There was 
no stick there. 

He returned to the inn. There was nothing more 
to be done. 

“There’s one thing, though,” he said as he un¬ 
dressed; “I’ve got the original stick still, and he 
doesn’t know it. That’s a point to me, and it may 
mean that I’ll have him yet.” 

Colson was one of those fortunate individuals who 
can do with very little sleep. He woke at an early 
hour, fresh and alert. 

He glanced out of the window as he was dressing. 
The tide was on the ebb. A canoe was out in mid¬ 
stream, a man in her paddling down from the upper 
reach. As he drew nearer and began to turn towards 
the shore, the detective recognised him. It was Mr. 
Proctor. 

Hastily Colson slipped on the rest of his clothes, 
and was on the shore just as Mr. Proctor came in. 
The detective pursed up his lips as he recognised the 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 


9 i 

canoe. It was the one in which the unknown had 
made his escape in the night. 

Proctor was the first to speak as he stepped ashore. 
He smiled and nodded affably. 

“Good morning,” he said. “You’re an early bird, 
Mr. Colson.” 

“So are you,” retorted the detective dryly. “Been 
out fishing?” 

“No,” said the little man. “I’ve been rescuing 
my canoe. Some joker seems to have played tricks 
with it in the night.” 

“What do you mean?” asked the detective, look¬ 
ing at him intently. 

But the little man returned his gaze quite calmly. 
“Why,” he said, “my energetic young nephew 
went out eel-spearing at some unearthly hour—to 
catch the falling tide—walks on the mud, you know, 
with what we call cleat boards fixed to his boots. 
It’s a good place for eels further up the estuary. 
About half a mile up he came on my canoe, stranded 
on a ridge of stones. He couldn’t get her down to 
the water by himself, so he ran home and woke me. 
Now, I should like to know who took that canoe out 
last night.” 

The detective thought he would like to know also. 
“I suppose it wasn’t you—or any of your police 


92 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


people, eh?” went on the little man. “I know in 
a case like this you’re up to all kinds of funny little 
dodges.” 

“No,” replied Colson, “it wasn’t any of us. Our 
man—Constable Gadsden—came back to Fratten- 
bury quite early last night. There was nothing to 
keep him here.” 

He looked hard again at Mr. Proctor as he spoke. 
He was getting a little puzzled. But the other man 
was apparently quite calm. 

“Well,” he said, “I’m going to get some break¬ 
fast. I suppose you had yours before you came out 
from Frattenbury this morning?” 

It was an innocent enough question, but Colson 
was on his guard. 

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” he said. “I’m 
going to see if I can get some at the ‘Mariner’s 
Arms.’ ” 

Proctor nodded and turned to go. 

“One moment,” said the detective. “I should like 
to see your nephew about finding that canoe this 
morning.” 

“What?” retorted Proctor, stopping and turning. 
“Do you think there’s anything in it about the 
murder?” 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 


93 

“I never said that. But it's best to take notice 
of anything, you know.” 

“Very well, then, come in after breakfast and 
see him.” 

The detective ate his meal in silence. There were 
several matters which gave him food for his mind 
as well as for his body. He was getting profoundly 
dissatisfied with the course of events. When Mrs. 
Yates came into the room to clear away he asked 
her, casually, how long Mr. Proctor had been living 
at Marsh Quay. 

“About two years, sir. The house was for sale 
then, and he came and bought it. A nice gentleman 
he is, too.” 

“Does he do anything?” 

“Just a bit of boatin’ and fishin’, that’s all. He 
ain’t got cause to work for his living. They say 
he’s retired from his business, whatever it was I 
dunno.” 

“Married?” 

“No, sir. He’s a bachelor. Would you like a bit 
o’ fish for your dinner, Mr. Colson? I can get some 
nice fresh whiting.” 

“Excellent, Mrs. Yates. Keep your mouth shut 
about my sleeping here last night. If anyone’s in- 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


94 

quistive, make ’em think I came out from Fratten- 
bury early this morning.” 

“I will, sir.” 

He strolled across to Mr. Proctor’s house. The 
latter saw him coming through the window, and 
opened the door for him. 

“Can I offer you a smoke?” he said. “A cigarette 
—or-” 

“Thanks, I stick to my pipe. You don’t mind 
my lighting up?” 

“Go on—have some of this,” and he set a tobacco 
jar on the table. “Now, Phil,” he went on to the 
boy who was with him “you must tell the detective- 
sergeant how you found my canoe this morning.” 

Colson listened while the boy told his story, which 
was brief and simple. And as he listened his gaze 
strayed once or twice to a picture, a large framed 
photograph, hanging over the mantelpiece. Hei asked 
Philip a few questions. 

“Was she fastened in any way?” 

“No—just lying on the stones.” 

“Just as she might have been left if anyone had 
landed from her when the tide was up, eh?” 

“Yes.” 

“I see. I expect you know all about the tide here, 
don’t you?” 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 


95 


“Rather,” said the boy. 

“Then what time do you calculate the tide was 
up to the spot where you found her?” 

“That’s no use,” said Philip promptly. “You see, 
if the fellow landed before high tide the flow would 
go on washing the canoe up and leave her stranded 
when it turned. I found her at highwater mark, of 
course.” 

The detective, who had his eyes riveted on Proc¬ 
tor’s face while the boy was replying, smiled ap¬ 
provingly. 

“You’re a sharp lad,” he said. “I ought to have 
thought of that. But it means that he landed either 
at or before high tide, eh?” 

“That’s it,” said the boy. 

Colson got up to go, lingering a little in the room. 
He strolled up to the fire-place casually. 

“That’s a fine view,” he said, nodding towards the 
picture. “Looks like a bit of Switzerland.” 

“It is,” replied Proctor. “It’s the Julier Pass, 
just before you get into the Engadine.” 

“Ah! I’ve always wanted to spend a holiday in 
Switzerland, but I’ve never been able to run to it. 
You’ve been there, I suppose?” he asked Proctor, 
turning to him as he spoke. 

“Oh, yes—some years ago.” 


9 6 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“I see. Well, thank you very much, sir. I won’t 
hinder you any longer.” 

“I shall see you this afternoon,” said the little 
man, in the act of showing him out. “Pm summoned 
on the jury.” 

Philip had come to the door with them. The 
detective turned to him. 

“Did you get good sport with the eels this morn¬ 
ing?” he asked. 

“Not so bad. It’s ripping sport. Have you tried 
it?” 

“No,” laughed the detective. “What sort of a 
spear do you use?” 

“Come along. I’ll show you. I left it in the 
garden here.” 

Colson followed him, examined the spear, chatting 
as he did so. 

“And you say about half a mile up yonder—near 
the spot where you found the canoe—is the best 
place for eels?” 

“Yes. I always go there.” 

“I see. Well, if you get up so early you may 
make your uncle think there’s a burglar in the 
house—if he hears you about in the dark, you 
know, eh?” 

“It wasn’t dark when I got up,” said the boy, a 


COLSON IS BAFFLED 


97 

little surprised, “and uncle knew I was going out this 
morning early. I told him so last night.” 

“Can’t quite make out that uncle of yours,” said 
Colson to himself as he walked along. “I wonder if 
he is only a fool.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE INQUEST 

The coroner arrived a little early, and was stand¬ 
ing on the shore with the Chief Constable and the 
superintendent, the latter pointing out to him the 
scene of the crime. 

“Shocking, shocking!” he exclaimed in his dry, 
formal manner. “I have your detailed report, Mr. 
Superintendent. I suppose there’s nothing else I 
ought to know’’ before we begin?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Well, I hope we shall catch the scoundrel,” re¬ 
marked the Chief Constable, giving a twist to his 
moustache, as they turned away towards the inn. 
“He deserves hanging if ever a man did.” 

“Precisely. He does, indeed,” replied the coroner. 
“That, of course, is your business. Mine is only 
to ascertain the circumstances and the cause of 
death.” He took out his watch. “It’s about time 
we began,” he went on. 

When the jury filed into the bar parlour after 

98 


THE INQUEST 99 

viewing the body they found none too much space. 
The room barely accommodated them, the police, 
the witnesses, and representatives of the Press. 
Outside the inn a little crowd of people had to be 
content with waiting patiently. 

The coroner took his seat at the top of the table, 
near the fire-place, which was in an angle of the 
room. Seated on his right, facing across the table, 
and therefore at the other angle, was Mr. Proctor, 
who had been elected by the jury as their foreman. 
Facing the coroner sat the police and the doctor. 
On one side of the room was a tall man with clean¬ 
shaven face and a professional manner. He was 
Mr. Anthony Crosby, the lawyer from London. 

The coroner opened the proceedings formally by 
explaining to the jury their duties, concluding by 
saying: 

“It will probably be necessary to adjourn this 
inquiry, and in that case you will not be called 
upon to record your verdict this afternoon. I think, 
from what I have said, you will quite understand 
that the scope of this inquiry is limited to the actual 
cause of death and circumstances which may throw 
light upon such cause. Of course, if anything 
transpires which may assist the police in their in¬ 
vestigations, I shall exercise my prerogative in al- 


100 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


lowing it to be brought forward. But the jury are 
not concerned with police investigations other than 
those which threw light upon the actual cause of 
death. I hope I make myself plain?” 

And he turned an inquiring look upon Mr. Proctor. 

The little man nodded his bald head. 

“I think I can say on behalf of the jury, sir, 
that we all understand perfectly.” 

“Very well,” said the coroner. “Now we can 
proceed with the inquiry.” 

Whereupon Anthony Crosby rose from his seat 
and said: 

“I represent the late Mr. Templeton, sir—as his 
legal adviser.” 

“Your name?” asked the coroner. 

“Mr. Anthony Crosby, of Crosby and Paxton, 
17B, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” 

The coroner bowed and made a note of it. 

The first witness called was Jim Webb, who gave 
evidence of the discovery of the body early on the 
previous morning. The coroner asked him a few 
questions. 

“You say that the deceased had arranged to go 
into Frattenbury on the Saturday afternoon?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And that you were given the night off?” 


THE INQUEST 


IOI 


“Yes, sir.” 

“Tell me, did you know whom he was going to 
see?” 

“The Reverend Fittleworth, sir. I guessed it 
afterwards.” 

The coroner elevated his eyebrows. 

“Guessed it? What do you mean? How did 
you guess it?” 

The man explained that he had read Canon 
Fittleworth’s name and address on the letter he 
had posted for his master. 

“Were you in the habit of prying into Mr. 
Templeton’s correspondence?” asked the coroner 
sarcastically. 

Jim Webb reddened. 

“No, sir, I wasn’t,” he replied emphatically. 

“Oh! How many more names and addresses did 
you read?” 

“Not any, sir. As a matter of fact that was the 
only letter he ever gave me to post.” 

“You’re sure? Remember you are on oath.” 

“Quite sure, sir.” 

“Very well.” 

Anthony Crosby interposed just as Webb was 
about to stand down. 

“May I put a question to the witness?” 


ioa THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“Yes—if you wish. It should be done through 
me.” 

“Thank you, sir. Will you ask him if he can 
give an account of his actions from Saturday evening 
till Sunday morning?” 

“You hear the question,” said the coroner to 
Webb; “what have you to say?” 

“Of course I can,” said the man, a little indig¬ 
nantly. “I was in my uncle’s house at Frattenbury. 
I can bring three witnesses to prove that.” 

“Are you satisfied?” the coroner asked Crosby. 

“Perfectly, thank you.” 

“You ought to be grateful for that question,” 
said the coroner to Webb, who was muttering 
something; “it clears you in the eyes of the jury 
of any connection with the crime. Next witness, 
please.” 

The next witness was the doctor, who gave his 
evidence tersely and technically. Several times 
the coroner had to ask him to explain surgical terms 
to the jury. 

“How long do you consider he had been dead?” 
asked the coroner. 

“Some hours—I would not undertake to say pre¬ 
cisely how many.” 

“Well—before or after midnight?” 


103 


THE INQUEST 

“Probably before. Possibly after.” 

“You will not commit yourself?” 

“No.” 

“You think he was stabbed with a knife?” 

“I do not. I consider that the weapon was more 
in the form of a dagger. The wound was distinctly 
triangular.” 

“And that death was instantaneous?” 

“Death was instantaneous.” 

“There were no signs of a struggle?” 

“None. I am of opinion that the deceased was 
probably seated on the bunk, leaning towards the 
table, that he fell forward, struck his head against 
the table, and then pitched onto the floor of the 
cabin. There was a slight abrasion on the left 
temple which makes this probable.” 

After one or two further questions the doctor 
resumed his seat. He was followed by Tom Gale, 
who gave evidence as to the arrival of the yacht 
and the crossing of the estuary by the murdered 
man. When he had finished, the coroner addressed 
the superintendent. 

“You have this matter in hand?” he asked. 

“We have, sir. I should like to suggest that it 
is strictly a question for the police at this moment.” 

“Certainly,” replied the coroner. “The jury will 


104 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


please note it. It may have a bearing on the case 
at a further stage of the inquiry. I think that is 
what you mean?” 

“Quite so, sir,” replied the superintendent. 
“Thank you.” 

The superintendent himself was next called upon. 
Briefly and clearly he described his visit to the 
yacht the previous morning, corroborating the non¬ 
technical portion of the doctor’s evidence. The 
coroner leaned back in his chair, the tips of his 
fingers together, and thought for a moment. Then 
he said: 

“A thorough investigation of the cabin was made, 
I presume?” 

“Yes, sir. I placed it in the hands of Detective- 
Sergeant Colson.” 

“Is there any matter in connection with that in¬ 
vestigation which you consider the jury ought to 
know?” 

“At present, sir, I would rather not advance any 
information—except to say that there is nothing 
which would assist the jury in arriving at their ver¬ 
dict. And I ask for an adjournment of the inquiry 
when all the witnesses called to-day have been 
heard.” 

The coroner nodded. 


THE INQUEST 105 

“That is quite reasonable,” he said, “quite rea¬ 
sonable.” 

Mr. Crosby rose. 

“In my position,” he said, “I should naturally 
wish further questions to be put to the witness, but 
I shall be perfectly satisfied if I have an assur¬ 
ance from the police that they will give me any 
information which may be of use to me.” 

“You will do this?” asked the coroner. 

“Most certainly,” replied the superintendent. 
“Our wish is only that certain details may not be¬ 
come public.” 

The next witness was Canon Fittleworth. He 
had known the coroner for years, fairly intimately, 
and he smiled a little as that functionary asked his 
name, address and occupation as though he were 
an entire stranger. He told the jury the facts he 
had already put before the superintendent. Rather 
a lengthy examination followed, in the course of 
which the coroner asked him: 

“You say the deceased informed you he had busi¬ 
ness with someone in Frattenbury on Saturday 
night?” 

“He did.” 

“You do not know with whom?” 

“No.” 


106 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“He did not tell you?” 

“He did not.” 

“He did not drop any hint?” 

“No.” 

“You knew Mr. Templeton fairly intimately— 
didn’t he mention anyone he knew in Frattenbury? 
It is an important point.” 

“I did not know him very intimately. I hadn’t 
seen him for some years. So far as I am aware, he 
knew no one in Frattenbury except myself and 
family.” 

“You have no idea what this business was that 
he mentioned?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“What do you mean by ‘not exactly’?” 

The coroner was looking at the Canon keenly. 
The jury were interested. 

“Only that, in the course of conversation, he 
mentioned that he was glad to be getting rid of 
something valuable he had been carrying about for 
a long time.” 

“What was it?” 

“He didn’t say.” 

“You are sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank you, Canon Fittleworth. That will do. 


THE INQUEST 107 

You will allow me—and I am sure the jury will 
join me in this—you will allow us to express our 
very deep sympathy towards you and our family 
in this terrible tragedy.” 

The Canon bowed. 

“Thank you,” he said. “There is—er—a state¬ 
ment I wish to make—something in the way of 
evidence.” 

“What is it?” asked the coroner. 

“When I went on board the yacht yesterday morn¬ 
ing there was something I found in the cabin— 
something I ought, perhaps, to have given to the 
police—but my mind was so much agitated at the 
time.” 

The superintendent and Colson looked up quickly. 
The coroner asked sharply: 

“What was it?” 

“A band off a cigar—lying on the floor of the 
cabin—here it is,” and he laid it on the table. 

The jury leaned forward—it was a moment of 
intense interest—the coroner motioned for the cigar 
band to be passed to him, took and examined it. 
Then he sat still thinking, leaning back in his chair, 
his head bent down. Then he said: 

“You think this important?” 

“I do.” 


108 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“Why?” 

“Because my cousin did not smoke. He told me 
so on Saturday evening.” 

The coroner sat bolt upright in his chair, a frown 
on his face, his eyes literally glaring at the Canon. 

“The jury must see this. Pass it round,” he 
exclaimed. 

Then he went on with great severity: 

“You must forgive my saying, Canon Fittle- 
worth, that I consider you have behaved in an ex¬ 
ceedingly careless manner. I have no doubt that 
you did not think—as you say—but a man of your 
intelligence ought to have thought. This should 
have been handed to the police immediately. It is 
just such want of thought that often leads to grave 
hindrances of justice. I am sorry to have to say 
this, but, in my position here, it is only my duty.” 

He had leaned forward as he spoke, his elbows 
on the table. As he resumed his former upright 
position, his right elbow swept one or two papers 
off the table. They fell fluttering into the fire-place. 
He leaned over to the right to pick them up, but 
before he could do so the foreman of the jury went 
down on one knee to assist him. 

The coroner picked up one bit of paper, Proctor 
the rest. 


THE INQUEST 109 

“Thanks/’ said the coroner as the foreman 
handed them to him. 

Meanwhile, the cigar band was being passed from 
man to man of the jury. Each of them examined 
it solemnly and portentously, one or two shaking 
their heads with an air of profound wisdom. So it 
went round till it reached the foreman, and his 
examination was the longest of all. He pursed up 
his little round mouth, adjusted a pair of spectacles 
on his nose, and looked carefully at the little red 
and gold object. Finally, as though loath to part 
with it, he handed it to two of the jurymen across 
the table who had not yet seen it, and they passed 
it on to the coroner. 

Meanwhile, the Canon was standing with burning 
face. It was a new and humiliating experience for 
a cathedral dignitary to be soundly rated in public, 
and though, in his heart of hearts, he admitted the 
justice of it, he was exceedingly irritated. 

“I much regret,” he said stiffly, and a little pom¬ 
pously—“I much regret what you are pleased to call 
my indiscretion, but I am not accustomed to expe¬ 
riences of this nature. I can say no more.” 

“Have you anything to add?” asked the coroner, 
relenting a little, but still stem. 

If the worthy Canon had been feeling normal he 


no 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


might have said more. But he was so acutely con¬ 
cerned with what he considered an undignified situ¬ 
ation that he merely remarked: 

“Nothing. Except that the brand is that of a 
particular cigar which I smoke myself.” 

It was here that the foreman of the jury inter¬ 
posed: 

“May I ask a question?” 

But the coroner, after a moment's thought, said: 

“You may ask me to put a question if you 
please, but in the interests of the case I imagine the 
police would rather you did not.” 

And the Chief Constable, who had been in whis¬ 
pered consultation with the superintendent and 
Colson, immediately exclaimed: 

“Thank you. We much prefer that no questions 
should be asked. We consider this matter as strictly 
belonging to the police—at this stage of the inquiry.” 

“I think it does,” replied the coroner. “I shall 
hand over this cigar band to you, of course.” 

And he laid it on the table. There was one man 
who never took his eyes off it for a moment, and 
that was the detective, who put it in his pocket-case 
a minute or two later when the inquiry was formally 
adjourned. 

“You may stand down, Canon Fittleworth,” said 


THE INQUEST hi 

the coroner stiffly. “Are there any more witnesses?” 

There were none. 

“You ask for an adjournment,” said the coroner 
to the superintendent, “for how long?” 

“This day fortnight, sir.” 

The coroner consulted his diary. “Will Saturday 
week do?” he asked. “I have a case in court on 
the Monday.” 

“That will do very well, sir,” replied the superin¬ 
tendent. 

The majority pressed out of the tap-room, Colson 
and Anthony Crosby being among the few who re¬ 
mained. The doctor, who had motored Canon 
Fittleworth over to Marsh Quay, was in a hurry to 
get back. As the latter got into the car, the super¬ 
intendent came up and said, more in sorrow than 
in anger: 

“You ought to have given us that cigar band at 
once, really you ought, sir.” 

“I know I ought,” said the Canon, whose injured 
pride was beginning to thaw. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll call later on, if I may—or Colson will—we 
shall want to see your particular brand of cigars.” 

“Do!” 

But when Colson and the superintendent made a 
closer examination of that cigar band, they agreed 


112 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


that it might not be worth while troubling the 
worthy Canon. 

“These parsons aren’t much help,” said Colson 
sarcastically; “they’d best stick to preaching and 
not mix themselves up in our business. Bother the 
blighter! I say.” 

“I say—how did you manage to miss that cigar 
band, on the yacht?” asked the superintendent. 

“I can tell you exactly, sir. I made my exam¬ 
ination while the body was on the floor. When they 
came to lay it out on the table I went on deck—I 
was still there when you and the Canon came aboard, 
you remember? I made a further examination after¬ 
wards, but that band must have been under Temple¬ 
ton’s body in the first place. That would account 
for the Canon finding it.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


WINNIE COTTERILL PAYS A VISIT TO FRATTENBURY 

“Hurry up, Winnie, breakfast is all ready.” 

“All right,” came a voice from somewhere, “I’ll 
be with you in a minute. You begin—don’t wait 
for me.” 

Maude Wingrave seated herself at the breakfast 
table and poured out a cup of tea. It was a tiny 
room, high up in a block of flats, looking over 
Battersea Park. The girl who sat at the table was 
short and dark-haired, with a merry expression on 
her somewhat plain face. 

“You are the limit, Winnie,” she exclaimed as 
a newcomer entered the room, a girl of about five 
and twenty, with a fresh, clear-cut face and grey 
eyes. “You’re a downright lazy pig.” 

“I can’t help it. I simply hate getting up. What’s 
for breakfast? I’m hungry.” 

“Go on—help yourself. Do something towards 
running this establishment, if it’s only that . I’ve 
not too much time. Can’t look after you.” 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


114 

And she glanced at her wrist-watch. 

“You ought to be thankful, Winnie Cotterill, that 
you don’t have to keep office hours.” 

“I am,” replied Winnie. “Providence never in¬ 
tended me to be punctual, so Providence has pro¬ 
vided me with work that doesn’t need a 9 a.m. be¬ 
ginning each day. Pass the toast.” 

“What are you doing to-day?” 

“Finishing the cover of the Christmas number of 
Peter’s Magazine, my dear, and I’m thankful to 
get it off my hands. Then I’m going seriously to 
tackle that short story the editor of The Holborn 
sent me to illustrate. A ‘horrible murder,’ Maude. 
With a detective in it. I’m going to make him a 
little ugly, snubbed-nose creature, wearing big po¬ 
lice boots. True to life, my dear—none of your 
impossible Sherlock Holmes.” 

The other girl laughed. 

“I’ve got an interview with our new ‘serial’ this 
morning,” she said—“a great big man of fifty, with 
a solemn beard and spectacles. He’s selling us the 
most romantic piffle you ever read. There’ll be a 
boom in our issue when the servant girls get hold 
of it. Hand over the paper if you’re not using it. 
I want to glance at the news before I go.” 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


ii5 

Winnie Cotterill passed the newspaper to her 
friend. Maude Wingrave opened it. 

“Hallo!” she exclaimed, “talk about your story 
with a ‘horrible murder’ in it—here’s a real one!” 
“What is it?” 

Maude read out the head-lines: 

“Mysterious Crime” 

“Yachtsmart Murdered on Board His Yacht” 
“Inquest To-day.” 

“Who is it?” asked Winnie, as she reached over 
for the teapot. 

Maude began to read: 

“Early yesterday morning a shocking discovery 
was made on board a small yacht, anchored in the 
little harbour of Marsh Quay, on an estuary of the 
Channel, about two miles from the cathedral city 
of Frattenbury. Mr. Reginald Templeton, a Fel¬ 
low of the Royal Geographical Society, only lately 
returned bom South Africa -” 

Winnie Cotterill dropped her knife and fork on 
her plate. 

“Who?” she exclaimed. 

“Mr. Reginald Templeton. Why?” 

“Oh, my dear!” 



n6 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“What is it?” 

“Pass me the paper. It must be—yes—it is — 
murdered! Oh, Maude!” 

“Do you know him?” 

“Why, of course I do! Ever since I can remem¬ 
ber. He was a great friend of my mother, and 
always so kind to me. I always called him Uncle. 
Why, I only had a letter from him last week. He 
was coming to London, soon, he said.” 

“Oh, you poor dear! Are you sure it’s the same 
man, Winnie?” 

“It must be,” said the girl, looking at the paper 
again. “Yes—when he wrote he said he was yacht- 
irig on the South Coast. Oh, Maude, what am I 
to do?” 

Maude had risen from the seat and was looking 
over her friend’s shoulder. 

“Look,” she said, pointing with her finger, “he’d 
been dining the night before with his cousin, Canon 
Fittleworth. Do you know him?” 

“I’ve heard Uncle speak of him. No, I’ve never 
met him.” 

“Why not write to him—or telegraph?” 

Winnie shook her head. 

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Of course, you 
see, Mr. Templeton isn’t any relation of mine. But 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


117 

I was awfully fond of him. Poor old Uncle! I 
know what I will do, dear,” she went on impul¬ 
sively. 

“What?” 

“I must finish that cover this morning. But 
I’ll go down to Frattenbury this afternoon and see 
Canon Fittleworth—yes, I will.” 

Maude had glanced at her watch again, and was 
putting on her gloves. 

“Will it be any good?” she asked. 

“Oh, Maude, I must! He’s been so awfully good 
to me. Why, my dear, when my mother died, and 
there wasn’t a penny, it was Mr. Templeton who 
paid for my art training. I owe my living to him— 
really. Don’t you see?” 

Maude nodded her head sympathetically* 

“I know, dear. I should do just the same. I’m 
so sorry. Yes—go down to Frattenbury. I wish I 
could go with you, but I simply have to get to the 
office.” 

v 

“Don’t worry about me, dear. I shall take a 
handbag in case I stay the night—I can get a room 
at an hotel. I’ll wire and let you know if I’m not 
coming back this evening.” 

“Thanks. I’d like to know. Good-bye!” 

And she nodded brightly as she left the room to 


n8 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

go to her work. She was sub-editress of one of the 
many popular weeklies issued by a well-known firm 
of publishers and newspaper proprietors. The two 
“bachelor” girl friends had been sharing the same 
flat for nearly a year. 

Winnie Cotterill slowly finished her breakfast, 
reading the details of the tragedy as she did so— 
a couple of columns in the usual blaring journalistic 
style, followed by a short article on local police 
methods, detrimental, of course, to the said local 
police. She was getting into a calmer frame of mind 
now, though still much upset by the shock of hear¬ 
ing such unexpected news. 

Breakfast over, she went into the little adjacent 
room she dignified by the name of “studio” and 
got to work on the magazine cover. When it was 
finished, she took a bus to Fleet Street and de¬ 
posited it with her editor, in whose office she con¬ 
sulted a Bradshaw. 

She had already packed a small handbag and, 
after a light lunch at a restaurant, she caught the 
afternoon train to Frattenbury, arriving about six, 
and at once made her way to the Close. 

Canon Fittleworth was closeted in his study with 
Anthony Crosby, who had returned from Marsh 
Quay and was staying the night at an hotel. A maid 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


119 

announced the fact that a young lady wished to see 
the Canon, and handed him a visiting card on a 
salver. 

The Canon adusted his pince-nez and read the 
name out loud. 

“Miss Winifred Cotterill.” 

“Eh?” interjaculated the lawyer, looking up from 
some papers he was studying. 

“Miss Winifred Cotterill,” repeated the Canon. 
“I don’t know her.” 

“But I do,” said Anthony Crosby, “at least, I 
know of her. She is, in a way, connected with this 
case, and I was going to communicate with her as 
soon as I got back to London.” 

“Oh, well, in that case, we’ll see her together. 
Show Miss Cotterill in, Jane.” 

The Canon looked her over quickly as she en¬ 
tered. He was, for the moment, half afraid that 
there might have been some unpleasant incident in 
his cousin’s life, with some undesirable female con¬ 
nected with it. His suspicions were quickly re¬ 
moved. He saw a neatly-dressed girl with a refined 
and pleasant face, and took a step towards her. 

“Miss Cotterill?” 

“I’m afraid I must apologise. I came down to 
Frattenbury because—because I read about Mr. 


120 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


Templeton’s murder in the paper this morning, and 
you are his cousin, and-” 

“Now do sit down, Miss Cotterill,” interrupted 
the Canon, “and before I ask you anything else— 
have you had any tea?” 

“I’ve only just arrived,” replied the girl. 

“I thought so. Now, I’m going to ring for tea. 
I’m sure you want some, and then you can tell us 
all about it. Mr. Crosby,” and he waved his hand 
in introduction towards the lawyer, “heard your 
name when it was announced, and says he knows 
of you.” 

Winnie Cotterill looked surprised. 

“You know me?” she asked. 

“I’ve heard about you, Miss Cotterill,” said the 
lawyer. “You see, I had the privilege of being a 
friend of Mr. Templeton, as well as his legal ad¬ 
viser, and he mentioned you several times. I quite 
understand what a shock this terrible affair must be 
to you.” 

“He was most awfully kind to me,” said the 
girl, her voice quavering a little, “and I felt I must 
come down and find out more about it.” 

Anthony Crosby nodded sympathetically. The 
maid brought in tea. Winnie Cotterill explained 
how Mr. Templeton had been a friend of her mother, 



WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 121 

and what he had done for her. Then she listened 
while the Canon told her about the murder. 

“But why, why was he murdered?” she asked. 
“I can’t understand.” 

“Ah, my dear young lady,” said the Canon, “that 
is what we all want to know. We suspect that 
robbery was the cause of it and, of course, the police 
have it in hand. Now tell me,” and he looked at his 
watch, “I naturally take an interest in any friend of 
my poor cousin. Were you thinking of going back 
to London to-nigl^t? I ask because the funeral will 
take place to-morrow afternoon—the coroner has 
given an order for burial—and I thought you might 
like to be present.” 

“I should, very much,” replied the girl, “and 
I’ll get a bed at an hotel for to-night. Perhaps you 
can tell me of one?” 

She had risen to go. 

“Sit down and have another cup of tea,” said the 
Canon with a smile. “I’ll be back in a minute or 
two.” 

He came back with his wife. Mrs. Fittleworth 
greeted the girl warmly. 

“You poor thing!” she said; “my husband has 
just told me about you. I’m so sorry. But you 


122 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


mustn’t think of going to an hotel. Do let us put 
you up for the night.” 

“It’s very kind of you.” 

“Nonsense. Of course you will stay with us. 
Come along, you must be very tired.” 

She took the girl out of the room, and the two 
men were left together. The Canon looked inquir¬ 
ingly at Anthony Crosby. The latter took a cig¬ 
arette from his case, tapped it deliberately, lighted 
it, and began. 

“I was going to tell you about Miss Cotterill, 
anyhow,” he said. “From all I have gathered, you 
know very little of your late cousin?” 

“Very little indeed. I so rarely saw him. And 
he was a reticent man. I really know nothing at 
all about his affairs.” 

The lawyer nodded. 

“Yes,” he agreed, “he was distinctly reticent, 
I know. I suppose / know as much as anyone, 
and that isn’t a great deal. Now, about this girl— 
I speak in confidence, of course?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, Templeton—like most men—had a ro¬ 
mance in his life.” 


“He never married.” 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


123 

“No,” said the lawyer deliberately, “the other 
man did that—it was years ago now.” 

“Who was the woman?” asked the Canon, his 
curiosity aroused. 

“This girl’s mother,” replied Crosby. “That is 
as much as he told me. She was left a widow when 
Winifred was about five years old—as far as I 
understand.” 

“Why didn’t he marry her then?” 

The lawyer smiled grimly. 

“I always consider that parsons, doctors and we 
lawyers have more chances of knowing about hu¬ 
man nature than the rest of the world. And you 
ought to know that very often when a man doesn’t 
get his first chance of marrying the woman he loves, 
he won’t take a second chance when it comes. That’s 
the only answer I can give you.” 

“Yes—it’s often true,” said the Canon thought¬ 
fully. “I’ve seen it more than once.” 

“Exactly. Well, the fact remains that Temple¬ 
ton didn’t marry Mrs. Cotterill. But he stood by 
her and her child. The girl has told you he paid 
for her training as an art student.” 

The Canon nodded. 

“Just so. Well, before he went abroad to South 
Africa he came to me and asked me to draw up his 


124 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


will. I have it at my office. If there isn’t a later 
one, of course, it stands good for probate.” 

“I see.” 

Crosby flicked the ash off his cigarette and 
smiled at the Canon. 

“1’m afraid you won’t benefit by it,” he said. 

Canon Fittleworth laughed. 

“It’s no disappointment,” he replied; “I never 
expected anything.” 

“Then I hope that, as his nearest relative, as I 
suppose you are, you won’t be envious when I tell 
you he has left everything he possesses to this girl— 
Winifred Cotterill.” 

“Indeed?” said Canon Fittleworth. “No, I’m not 
a bit envious. The girl is an orphan, and I’m only 
too glad. Besides, after what you tell me, it’s per¬ 
fectly natural. Romance has a strange sway over 
human affairs.” 

“But,” said the other slowly and deliberately, 
“unless Templeton made anything out of his last 
venture—which I doubt—it won’t be very much— 
not two thousand pounds.” 

“I see—I knew nothing of his affairs. But I 
always imagined him to be comfortably off.” 

“He should have been—but for my profession,” 
said the lawyer. “No, don’t blame me. I did 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


125 

the best I could for him, but he would not listen to 
reason. He got involved, some years ago, in an 
unfortunate and expensive lawsuit—a question of 
adjacent properties. I advised him, at the time, to 
compromise, but he was adamant. The case went 
against him, and he insisted upon carrying it to the 
Court of Appeal. The appeal was quashed—as I 
knew it would be. The costs were enormous—he 
insisted on having the best counsel—and he had 
to sell the whole of his property to pay them. The 
other man bought the property, and Templeton never 
forgave him.” 

“I remember hearing something about it at the 
time,” said the Canon. “So that was why he sold 
the little place in Buckinghamshire! What a pity! 
I suppose he was in the wrong, though?” 

“I didn’t say that,” replied the other dryly. “It 
was a case of law. And I admit that the law is not 
always just. Anyhow, he became a comparatively 
poor man. Besides, he spent what money he had 
on travelling. An explorer, out on his own, can’t 
expect to make money unless he discovers a gold¬ 
mine. And Templeton didn’t. Even if he had, he’d 
not the business capacity to make anything out of 
it. Poor chap! ‘De mortuis,’ eh?” 


126 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“Quite so/’ said the Canon. After a silence he 
remarked: 

“Are you going to tell the girl—now?” 

Anthony Crosby shook his head. 

“Not for the moment,” he replied. “I prefer to 
act professionally. As a matter of fact, I didn’t 
bring the will. It’s at my office, and I had to come 
straight down here from my home. Besides, there’s 
a sealed packet that Templeton handed me just 
before he sailed—only to be opened by me in the 
event of his death. It may contain a codicil, or even 
another will. So it wouldn’t be fair to tell her yet, 
you see. You won’t say anything about it, will 
you?” 

“Of course I won’t. Must you be going now?” 

For the lawyer had risen. 

“I must. I’m staying at the ‘Dolphin,’ and I’ve 
some letters to write. I shall see you to-morrow— 
at the funeral. I want to have a consultation with 
the police in the morning.” 

It was about ten o’clock that evening that the 
Canon, who had retired to his study after dinner, 
came into the drawing-room. His wife and daughter 
and Winnie Cotterill were seated there. 

“Who was with you in the study, dear?” asked 
his wife. “I heard Jane showing someone in.” 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


127 


“Major Renshaw,” replied her husband, seating 
himself. “He came in to have a smoke and discuss 
the events of the day.” 

Mrs. Fittleworth glanced swiftly at Winnie Cot- 
terill. With a woman’s instinct she knew the girl 
had had nearly enough strain that day. She was 
just going to try to turn the conversation when the 
Canon went on in his best parsonical manner that 
brooked no interruption: 

“Of course, I refrained from asking him very 
much about any possible clues, and so on,” he said. 
“The police naturally wish to keep these things to 
themselves. But he did tell me something, which 
isn’t exactly private, because it’s being talked about 
at Marsh Quay. There was a young man lodging 
at the inn there—the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ An artist, 
apparently, though no one seems to know anything 
about him.” 

“Go on, father,” said Doris; “this sounds most 
exciting.” 

“Well, the strange thing is that he left quite 
suddenly yesterday morning—just before the un¬ 
happy affair was discovered. The landlady says he 
came downstairs very early and announced his in¬ 
tention of leaving at once.” 


128 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


The three women were listening intently. The 
Canon went on: 

“He was, it seems, cycling into Frattenbury. But 
he never went there. The police have been making 
inquiries, and only found out this evening that he 
stayed last night at Selham—three miles from Marsh 
Quay down the estuary, you know. He left there 
this morning, so they say, and must have been close 
to Marsh Quay, because he was seen riding in the 
direction of Frattenbury. Then all trace of him was 
lost again.” 

“Oh, daddy, how exciting! Do they think he 
committed the murder?” 

“Well, Renshaw didn’t say that—but, of course, 
it’s suspicious going off like that, and the police are 
making every effort to find him. They have his 
description, and it shouldn’t be difficult.” 

“Do they know his name?” asked Mrs. Fittle- 
worth. 

“They know the name under which he stayed at 
the inn,” replied the Canon, “but, of course, it may 
be a fictitious one.” 

“What is it, daddy?” 

“Grayson—Harold Grayson.” 

“Oh!” 

They all turned towards Winnie Cotterill, from 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


129 


whom the exclamation proceeded. The girl was 
sitting bolt upright in her chair, her hands clutch¬ 
ing at its arms, her face deadly pale. 

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Fittleworth, crossing 
over to her. 

“Oh—it can’t be,” said Winnie in a low voice, 
half choking. “He couldn’t have done it—I know 
he couldn’t have done it.” 

“What—do you know him?” asked the Canon 
anxiously. 

The girl nodded. 

“If it’s the same—Mr. Grayson. Yes. He was at 
the Art School with me. And I’ve seen him since. 
I—I know him quite well. It’s impossible. Oh, 
oughtn’t I to tell the police? It’s dreadful to think 
of.” 

Mrs. Fittleworth, who noticed the deep blush to 
which the girl’s ashy cheeks had given place, with a 
motherly instinct put her arm over her shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “The Canon has 
said the police don’t necessarily suspect him. If he 
is really the Mr. Grayson you know—and he may 
not be, after all—of course he will be able to explain. 
You’re quite done up with all this terrible affair, 
and I’m going to take you to bed. Come along.” 

“Thank you,” said Winnie gratefully, “you are 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


130 

kind to me. I’m very silly, I know, but I can’t 
bear to think that he—he is suspected. I know he 
couldn’t have done it.” 

“Of course he couldn’t,” said Mrs. Fittleworth 
soothingly. “Now—I must insist. You come to 
bed, dear.” 

When the Canon himself went to bed that night 
he had to listen to a little lecture. And he took it 
calmly—from force of habit—much more calmly 
than if it had come from the Dean, or even the 
Bishop. Whereat it is evident that even for cathe¬ 
dral dignitaries there is a higher court than the mere 
ecclesiastical. 

“Really, Charles,” said his wife, “you ought to 
have noticed that the poor girl had gone through 
quite enough for one day.” 

The Canon tried defensive argument, which was 
foolish of him—for he ought to have remembered 
that he never succeeded. 

“But how was I to know, my dear, that she was 
acquainted with the young man?” 

“Oh, do be reasonable, Charles. You ought not 
to have mentioned the subject of the murder at all 
at that time of night. Doris and I had been doing 
our best to get the girl’s mind off it. And then you 
came in and started it all again!” 


WINNIE AT FRATTENBURY 


131 

“Why didn’t you stop me, my dear?” 

“Stop you!” exclaimed his wife; “stop you when 
you once begin to hold forth on a subject. How can 
anyone stop you? I can’t. There. I know you 
didn’t mean to upset her, but you ought to have 
thought.” 

“I suppose I ought,” said the Canon resignedly. 
“I’m very sorry. Good night, my dear.” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE CIGAR BAND 

The crowd that had assembled at the inquest at 
Marsh Quay loitered for a while discussing the one 
important topic. Newspaper men were busy with 
notebook and camera. The removal of the body of 
Reginald Templeton from the “Mariner’s Arms” to 
the mortuary at Frattenbury, pending the funeral 
the next day, was eagerly watched. Members of the 
jury, for the most part stolid agricultural labourers 
or boatmen, were closely questioned by friends or 
relatives, but, on the whole, recognising the impor¬ 
tance of their office, were not communicative. 

Mr. Proctor refused to say a word to anyone. He 
came out of the “Mariner’s Arms,” lighting a cigar 
as he did so, and walked straight over to his house 
opposite, blandly smiling at an irrepressible re¬ 
porter who asked him to pose for his camera. 

The coroner drove away with the Chief Con¬ 
stable in the latter’s car, austere and grave as usual. 
Anthony Crosby, the superintendent and Colson held 


132 


THE CIGAR BAND 


133 


a brief consultation in the inn parlour, where it was 
arranged that the lawyer should call at the police 
station the next morning for further discussion. 

“What are you going to do, Colson?” asked the 
superintendent as he rose to go. “Are you coming 
back to Frattenbury?” 

“I want to think a bit, sir. I may cycle in later 
on. But I’m fairly puzzled just now. There are 
two men we want to get hold of, anyhow—this artist 
chap who was staying here, and Moss, opposite.” 

The superintendent nodded. 

“We’re bound to do that,” he said. “I expect 
there’ll be reports when I get back to the station. 
Well, I’ll leave you now.” 

Everyone else but the detective having left the 
inn, Mrs. Yates locked the front door and came into 
the bar parlour. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Colson?” 

“Yes, please. I should like some strong tea. 
Then I want you to keep everyone away.” 

“Trust me for that, sir. Not a soul comes into 
this house till six, when I’m bound to open. I 
want to have a little quiet myself, Mr. Colson. WHiat 
with all these reporters and people asking ques¬ 
tions I’m fairly bewildered. I hope there won’t be 


134 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


any more murders here as long as I keeps the 
Mariner’s Arms/ I do indeed.” 

Seated at the table, drinking his tea, his note¬ 
book in front of him, Detective-Sergeant Colson de¬ 
liberately and methodically reviewed the case, mak¬ 
ing his deductions as he did so, and writing them 
out concisely. And this was the result when he 
finally closed his pocket-book: 

“Templeton's object in coming to Marsh Quay. 

First, to see Moss. That requires investigation. 
Secondly, to see his cousin. We know all about 
that. Thirdly, an interview with some unkown per¬ 
son in Frattenbury, who must have been the last 
person who saw him before he was murdered. Why 
did not that person come forward to give evidence? 
But he might not have lived in Frattenbury itself 
*—he might have spoken, loosely, of the neighbour¬ 
hood. He might have arranged to see Moss again 
—or this artist chap—or even Proctor. They are all 
possible. 

“Reason for appointment. He hinted that he 
was carrying something valuable. We know what 
that was. Diamonds. There were probably more 
than the one we found. Who has them now? 

“Clues. Only four at present of any value— 
possibly only two. (i) The blotting-paper. Not 


THE CIGAR BAND 


135 

easy to make out. If deciphered, it might lead to 
finding out with whom the appointment was made, 
or what it was about. But very uncertain. (2) 
The diamond. But that only appears to prove 
that he had others. (3) The walking-stick. Most 
important, this. It is pretty certain that the man 
who thinks he has recovered it is the criminal. If 
only I hadn’t muddled it! (4) The cigar band. I 
ought to have spotted that, and not have left it to 
that confounded parson to find. There may be some¬ 
thing in it, certainly. 

“Possible suspects. (1) Moss. Why did he leave 
in such a hurry? The fact of the murderer being 
on The spot last night, when he got that walking- 
stick, seems to rule Moss out. But not necessarily. 
He might easily have run down from London last 
night. There’s a lot to be inquired into here. 

(2) Grayson, the artist. Why did he leave in a 
hurry? He’s certainly got to be run to earth. 

(3) Proctor. Yes—Proctor puzzles me. Such a 
cool old chap! He would have known exactly 
where to land in that canoe—and, if so, he knew 
perfectly well that the boy would find it there in 
the morning. Also, he’s been in Switzerland. That 
stick again! And I thought he was never going to 
leave off examining that cigar band at the inquest. 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


136 

We must keep a sharp eye on Proctor. If he’s not 
simply a fool, he’s as wily as they make ’em.” 

When he had closed his notebook and put it in 
his pocket, the detective lighted his pipe and sat, 
smoking thoughtfully, looking out of the window. 
He realised that the case was all the more difficult 
because the few clues that he held, and the slight 
facts he had to go upon, might equally apply to any 
one of the three persons he had enumerated as be¬ 
ing suspicious. And if, as it seemed, his work was 
to eliminate two of these persons, he was anxious to 
make no mistake. 

Colson was not the detective of fiction. He was 
simply a shrewd, careful man, keenly observant, 
with a police training. Had he been that brilliant 
genius which the writer of fiction is so fond of 
delineating, he would, after his manner, by this time 
have made some supernaturally clever deduction, 
which would have enabled him to spot the criminal 
at once, and to run him down unerringly, with the 
additional triumph attached to it that all his col¬ 
leagues, and every other person concerned, had been 
absolutely wrong in their suspicions. He would, 
probably, have adopted extraordinary disguises, kept 
all his clues and methods to himself, and never have 
given a hint of them to his superior officers, and 


THE CIGAR BAND 


137 

finally have achieved that superlative climax in 
which he would have exclaimed, “Alone I did it!” 

But Colson was what, in spite of the writers of 
fiction, is a useful personage in tracing crime— 
Colson was a policeman, and he knew the value 
of those often-derided police methods. He, for ex¬ 
ample, could sit now, calmly smoking his pipe, se¬ 
cure in the knowledge that every police station in 
the district was on the look-out for Grayson, the 
artist, that in a very short time Moss would probably 
be found—also by police methods—and that a little 
police machinery, which the superintendent was al¬ 
ready putting in hand as a result of their brief con¬ 
ference after the inquest, would prevent Proctor 
from slipping away from the neighbourhood unob¬ 
served—if he had any such idea in his mind. 

As Colson looked out of the window, half lost in 
reflections, he noticed a man detach himself from 
the little group that still lingered near the scene of 
the tragedy, and go walking up the quay, hands in 
pockets. It was Tom Gale, the “crew and cook” 
of the schooner that was still moored at the quay 
head, waiting for his cargo. 

An idea struck the detective. 

“That chap was about all the time,” he argued, 


138 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“it might be worth while having another chat with 
him.” 

So he went out, strolled along the quay, and 
finally stepped aboard the schooner, where he found 
Tom Gale in his favourite attitude of leaning over 
the bulwarks. 

“Well,” he said, as he went up to him, “you gave 
your evidence well to-day, my man. We like a 
witness who speaks out plainly, and you did it.” 

Tom grinned approval of the compliment. In¬ 
wardly he was proud of being in any way mixed up 
with the case. He knew he could tell the story— 
with self-complimentary embellishments—for many 
weeks in divers bars, and that many invitations to 
“have one with me, mate,” would be the resulting 
homage. 

“Ah,” he said, “I told ’em what I knew. I wish 
it had been more, sir.” 

“So do we all. But what you told us of Temple¬ 
ton crossing the estuary—and seeing Moss—was 
important, you know.” 

Tom Gale made a mental note of how he could 
truthfully say afterwards that if it hadn’t been for 
him the police would have missed the very essence 
of things—the detective himself had told him so— 
and then spoke. 


THE CIGAR BAND 


139 


“Ah,” he said, “I seen him plain enough. Just 
over yonder ’twas,” and he jerked his thumb in the 
direction of the opposite shore, “that ’ere little Jew 
fellow, Moss, he stood on the shore, just there. D’ye 
think ’twas him as did it, sir?” he asked with relish. 

The detective shook his head mysteriously 

“Ah,” he said, “we musn’t jump to conclusions 
hastily, you know. So you saw him plainly, did 
you?” 

“Ah. T’other chap was only just a-askin’ on 
me who lived in that house and I was tellin’ on him, 
when there was Moss himself—I pointed ’im out.” 

“What do you mean by ‘t’other chap’?” asked 
the detective sharply. 

“Why, him as was standin’ just where you might 
be, sir, at the time—that young artist feller what was 
lodging at the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ ” 

“Oh!” said Colson, thoughtfully, “he was with 
you, was he?” 

“O’ course he was, sir—now, ought I to ha’ told 
’em that at the inquest? I never thought of it.” 

“No, no,” said the other. “It didn’t matter at 
all. But, tell me. If this artist—Grayson is his 
name—was with you, did he recognise Mr. Temple¬ 
ton when he came back? Or speak to him?” 

Tom Gale shook his head. 


140 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“No, sir; directly Mr. Templeton started coming 
across, this here artist chap went straight back to 
the inn—looked almost as if he didn’t want Mr. 
Templeton to see him.” 

“Oh, did it?” said Colson. “Yes, I see.” 

He filled his pipe and handed his pouch to the 
other man. Tom Gale put his hand in his pocket, 
ostensibly to get his pipe, and exclaimed: 

“ ’Ullo. I’d forgotten this,” and drew forth a 
crumpled cigar. 

He looked at it ruefully. 

“Meant to ’ha smoked him yesterday, bein’ Sun¬ 
day,” he said; “now he’s too far gone. I must 
chop him up and smoke him in my pipe. ’Tain’t 
often I gets hold of a cigar, guv’nor.” 

Colson, who was looking at the cigar intently, 
asked him quietly: 

“Where did you get it from?” 

“That ’ere artist feller we was just a-talkin’ about 
gave ’im to me, sir, up yonder in the ‘ Mariner’s 
Arms.’ A good ’un, I reckon, ain’t he?” 

The detective took the cigar in his hand and 
smelt it. But, all the time, he was carefully ex¬ 
amining the band. 

“Yes, it’s good enough,” he said. “Pity you’ve 
spoilt it. Oh—so Grayson gave it to you, did he?” 


THE CIGAR BAND 


141 

“Yes, sir—Saturday afternoon, we was sittin’ in 
the bar parlour, me and him, and he gave ’im to 
me. He smoked two of ’em while I was there.” 

“Well, look here,” said Colson, “have one of 
mine instead, to make up for it.” And he pulled 
out what he called his “diplomatic cigar case.” He 
rarely smoked anything but a pipe himself, but he 
always kept a few good cigars in his pocket. He 
knew their value—when he was in search of infor¬ 
mation. 

“Take a couple,” he went on. 

“Thankee, sir—don’t mind if I do.” 

Tom Gale lighted one of them and smoked com¬ 
placently. The detective talked volubly and then 
bid him good afternoon. 

“Blowed if he ain’t took that cigar o’mine with 
him,” murmured Tom Gale after he had gone. “Ab¬ 
sent-minded like, I’ll ’low. It doan’t matter, 
though.” 

Colson, who had quietly slipped the crushed cigar 
into his pocket, walked rapidly back to the inn. 
Arrived in the bar parlour, he laid the cigar on the 
table, took from his case the band which the Canon 
had handed in at the inquest, and carefully com¬ 
pared it with the other. 

A smile lightened his face. 


142 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“That’s better!” he exclaimed. “Here’s some¬ 
thing to go upon at last. The same brand, that’s 
what they are. It’s a good brand, but not specially 
exclusive as that idiot of a parson wanted to make 
out. Same brand as he smoked, he said. Very 
likely, but the clergy ain’t got the monopoly of the 
cigar trade. Anyhow, this looks convincing. This 
young Grayson smoked these cigars, and someone 
who was aboard the yacht smoked one of ’em there. 
It’s good enough to go upon. Mrs. Yates!” 

He opened the door as he spoke. The landlady 
bustled in. 

“I’m going back to Frattenbury now. And I 
shan’t be staying the night here.” 

“Sorry to lose you, Mr. Colson.” 

“Can’t be helped, Mrs. Yates. I don’t think 
there’s anything to keep me here for the present. 
Oh—tell me. This young lodger of yours smoked 
cigars, didn’t he?” 

“He did, sir—as I knows. He was always drop¬ 
ping the ash about—on my bedroom carpet too.” 

“Do your carpets good, if you rub the ash in.” 

“Lor,’ sir! And the mess he made in the grate, 
too.” 

The detective looked at the grate sharply. On 
the top of the coals, that were laid there ready to be 


THE CIGAR BAND 


143 

lighted, was a sprinkling of cigar ash and a couple 
of red and gold bands. He picked them out. 

“These came off his cigars, I suppose?” 

“They must have, Mr. Colson. It's few folks 
ever smokes them things here. Pipes and ’baccy is 
what they mostly uses.” 

“Quite so. Well, I’ll run up and pack my bag 
while you get my bill ready.” 

He rode quickly into Frattenbury, in a very cheer¬ 
ful mood, and reported to the superintendent. That 
functionary was delighted. 

“Good!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done well, Col¬ 
son. We must have this Grayson at any price. 
Thompson has just been in to report that he stayed 
at Selham on Sunday and Sunday night—at the 
‘Wheatsheaf.’ ” 

“Did he?” exclaimed Colson. “That makes mat¬ 
ters clearer than ever. He was on the spot on 
Sunday night, eh?” 

“He was seen riding into Frattenbury a couple 
of hours ago,” went on the superintendent. “We’ll 
soon have him. He can’t get away by train—we’ve 
seen to that. By the way, Colson, the post has just 
brought in a letter from the London police about 
Moss. You’d better see it.” 


144 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

He handed a typewritten paper to the detective, 
who read: 

Isaac Moss. In rejerence to your inquiries 
concerning this man, 1 beg to report as follows. 
He rents a small office at 130, Hatton Garden. 
Deals in jewels, mostly diamonds, and is well 
known. Private residence, “Fairview,” No. 53, 
Compton Avenue, Brondesbury. Nothing known 
against him. Possesses passport, as he is fre¬ 
quently in Amsterdam. Boats being watched as 
precaution 

“I sent Tyler up yesterday,” went on the super¬ 
intendent. “He’s probably on his track by this 
time.” 

Late that night a message came through from 
Tyler: 

Tracked our man, and have him under obser¬ 
vation. 

Colson smoked the pipe of peace at his own fire¬ 
side that night. His wife listened attentively as 
he told her all that he had done that day. 

“Looks promising, doesn’t it?” 


THE CIGAR BAND 


US 

She thought for a minute or two before she re¬ 
plied: 

“I hope so—for your sake. But there are still 
difficulties. I want to know why the little bag with 
the one diamond was put back in Mr. Templeton’s 
waistcoat pocket—if the rest were stolen. And you 
say yourself that the cigar band was not a very 
extraordinary one. Be careful, dear, won’t you? I 
want you to come out of this well, you know-” 

Colson smiled grimly. 

“All right, old girl,” he said, “I’ll be careful. I 
know what you mean. We don’t want to get any¬ 
one sent up for trial till we’re quite certain. It’s 
too big a risk—and I’m not taking any risks in this 
job.” 


CHAPTER X 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 

Harold Grayson came down to breakfast on 
the Tuesday morning in the little cottage where he 
had found a lodging in the downland village of 
Linderton, some four or five miles north of Frat- 
tenbury, profoundly oblivious of the fact that the 
stolid-looking policeman who was digging in his 
garden directly opposite his lodgings had been, ac¬ 
cording to orders, watching the house all night and 
was yawning heavily at the prospect of the snooze 
he would take when the promised relief came that 
morning. 

For although Harold Grayson had escaped de¬ 
tection for the moment by riding round Fratten- 
bury instead of through it on his way to the downs, 
the net which the superintendent had quietly spread 
had soon closed in upon him. That stolid village 
policeman, Constable Drake, to wit, already had a 
description of the fugitive in his pocket, and when 
Grayson had alighted from his bicycle the evening 
146 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 147 

before and asked him where he could get a bed, 
Drake had recognised the quarry at once. 

But Drake was absolutely imperturbable. By 
never a sign did he intimate that anything unusual 
was happening. Instead, he tilted back his helmet, 
scratched his head thoughtfully—for he was really 
thinking astutely all the time—and said: 

“A bed, sir? Well, there’s the ‘Blue Lion,’ but 
I’m not sure if you’d like it. It ain’t up to much” 
—that was because the “Blue Lion” was at the ex¬ 
treme end of the village, well away from the con¬ 
stable’s cottage. “Let me see, now. Tell you what, 
sir. We don’t often have anyone stayin’ here, but 
there’s a neighbour o’ mine who lets rooms some¬ 
times—clean and comfortable they are. You come 
along o’ me, sir, and I’ll do what I can for you.” 

With a view to his own as well as the artist’s 
comfort, he led him straightway to the cottage op¬ 
posite his own, and, with bland persuasion, induced 
the occupant to take in the stranger. Grayson, as he 
unstrapped his holdall from his bicycle, gratefully 
gave him a tip, which the policeman as gratefully 
acknowledged. 

“Tell you what, sir,” he said, “Mrs. Goring ain’t 
got much room for your bicycle. There’s my shed 
handy. You can put it there if you like.” 


148 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


Which Grayson promptly did, and as soon as he 
had departed Drake promptly removed the valves— 
with much satisfaction. Then he went indoors, 
slowly and laboriously wrote a letter, which began, 
“While on duty at 6.38 p.m. in the main road at 
Linderton I was accosted,” and dispatched it by 
his son, who took it into Frattenbury on his bicycle 
and brought out a reply. 

That is all that is necessary to say about Police- 
Constable Drake. When he got his well-earned 
snooze he had a vision of sergeant’s stripes in the 
future. 

As Grayson ate his eggs and bacon he could see 
the line of downs opposite and was picturing in his 
mind a pleasant day’s work, when a smart motor¬ 
car drew up at the garden gate of the cottage and 
a tall, military-looking man got out of it, followed 
by a stiff-looking man in plain clothes, who took 
up his position outside the cottage. A moment 
later the landlady opened the door of the room 
and announced: 

“A gentleman to see you, sir.” 

Grayson rose, surprised. 

“Good morning,” exclaimed the newcomer. 
“Your name is Grayson, I believe—Mr. Harold 
Grayson?” 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 149 

“It is,” replied Grayson; “but I confess I haven’t 
the honour-” 

“I am Major Renshaw, Chief Constable of this 
district. I fear I have rather an unpleasant duty 
to perform.” 

“Yes?” 

“You were recently staying at the ‘Mariner’s 
Arms’ at Marsh Quay, I believe?” 

Grayson, looking a little uncomfortable under the 
penetrating gaze of Major Renshaw, replied that he 
was. 

“And you left rather suddenly, very early on Sun¬ 
day morning?” 

“I did—but I don’t understand-” 

“It was a little unfortunate, Mr. Grayson, that 
you did so. Please understand that I am making 
no charge against you at present, but I suppose 
you are aware what took place at Marsh Quay the 
night before you left?” 

The young man shook his head. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied. 

“Oh, come now!” said Major Renshaw sharply. 
“Mr. Templeton’s murder—you must have heard 
of it. Everyone’s talking about it, and you’ve been 
in the neighbourhood all the time.” 



THE TEMPLETON CASE 


150 

“Mr. Templeton’s murder?” stammered Grayson. 
“He—he had his yacht there.” 

“I $ee you know that,” said the Chief Constable 
grimly. “And do you mean to tell me you don’t 
know that he was murdered on that yacht?” 

“I—I—really I don’t.” 

Major Renshaw shrugged his shoulders. 

“Perhaps you can explain,” he said coldly. “You 
must be an extraordinary young man either to think 
you can make me believe you know nothing or to 
have escaped hearing about it. Perhaps you won’t 
mind telling me your movements since you left 
Marsh Quay?” 

“I—I can do that. You may not believe me, 
and I admit it sounds strange—but I’ll tell you the 
facts. I left the ‘Mariner’s Arms’ quite early, in¬ 
tending to go to Frattenbury. Then I changed my 
mind and went to Selham. I put up at the ‘Wheat- 
sheaf’ there. I asked them to give me some lunch 
to take out with me—I wanted to do some sketch¬ 
ing—I am fond of being alone—I suffered from shell¬ 
shock in the war—and I find it rests me.” 

“Go on,” said the Major, a little more sympatheti¬ 
cally now that Grayson had touched on his erstwhile 
profession. “What did you do next?” 

“I found my way to a very lonely bit of the 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 151 

coast and sketched. I can show you the sketches. 
I particularly wanted to get a sunset effect, so I 
waited till then. When I started back I began to 
feel hungry, and called at a solitary farm-house, 
where they gave me bread and cheese and milk. 
It was dark when I left and I wandered consider¬ 
ably out of my way before I got back to the ‘Wheat- 
sheaf.’ When I did, I was awfully tired. I glanced 
in the tap-room. There was a noisy crowd there, 
so I went straight to bed. I never spoke to anyone.” 

“Go on, please. The next morning?” 

“I was up early. There was only a girl about, 
and she got me some breakfast. Then I paid my bill 
and rode off.” 

“Where?” 

“To the lower part of the estuary. I bought some 
food at a grocer’s shop in a village I passed through, 
sketched till the afternoon, and then rode out here. 
With the exception of the girl in the morning and 
a deaf old woman in the grocer’s shop, I never 
spoke to a soul all day till I asked the village police¬ 
man here where I could get a bed. Those are the 
facts, Major Renshaw. I hope you don’t dispute 
them?” 

The Chief Constable regarded him critically, but 
did not answer his question. Instead he asked: 


152 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Did you know this Mr. Reginald Templeton?” 

The young man hesitated a little. 

“Yes—I did/’ he admitted. 

“Did you see him to speak to at Marsh Quay?” 

“N—no.” 

“You knew he was there—you have admitted 
that already.” 

“Yes—I knew he was there.” 

“You avoided him, then?” 

Grayson nodded. 

“Why?” 

“Well—you see—we weren’t exactly friends. 
That’s why I came away. I didn’t want to meet 
him.” 

“Oh!” 

After a brief silence the Chief Constable said: 

“Well, Mr. Grayson, I told you mine was an 
unpleasant duty. I make no charge against you at 
present, but there are certain ugly facts which you 
will have to account for. You are not under arrest 
—or I should not, of course, have questioned you— 
but I am afraid I shall have to ask you to come 
back with me to Frattenbury and I must warn you 
that you will be detained there, at all events till 
you can give a further account of yourself. I am 
sorry if there is any mistake. I cannot say more.” 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 153 

Grayson bowed. He was still very pale and a little 
agitated. He recognised the seriousness of his posi¬ 
tion. 

“I understand,” he said quietly, “and of course 
I cannot refuse to go with you; but I assure you 
it is all a mistake.” 

“I hope it is,” said Major Renshaw dryly. “You 
had better bring some things with you—for your 
own comfort.” 

Just before they were ready to start the Chief 
Constable suddenly said: 

“Have you any cigars on you, Mr. Grayson?” 

The young man pulled out his case. 

“These are all I have left. Why?” 

“Thank you,” said Major Renshaw, putting the 
case in his pocket. “I’m afraid I must deprive you 
of them.” 

“Am I not allowed to smoke?” asked Grayson. 
“I understood I was not under arrest.” 

Major Renshaw smiled grimly, and as soon as 
they were in the car offered his cigarette-case. 

“Smoke, by all means,” he said. “I’ll supply you 
willingly. Only we rather bar cigars.” 

He looked at him keenly as he spoke. But Gray¬ 
son was lighting a cigarette quite calmly. 

When they arrived at the police station a further 


154 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


examination took place in the presence of the super¬ 
intendent and Colson. Grayson, who had recovered 
his equanimity by this time, repeated all he had 
told the Chief Constable. The superintendent took 
careful notes. 

“We shall make inquiries, Mr. Grayson,” he said, 
“to verify these statements so far as the people 
to whom you say you spoke are concerned. Now 
will you tell me, please, something about yourself?” 

“In what way?” 

“Well, your home.” 

“I am at present in lodgings in London. I will 
give you the address. My home is just outside Mar¬ 
low, in Buckinghamshire. My father, who is a 
county magistrate, is well known—Mr. Osmond 
Grayson.” 

“What are you doing in this neighbourhood?” 

“Sketching, mostly.” 

“Did you know that Mr. Templeton was likely 
to be at Marsh Quay?” 

“Certainly not. I have already told you I wished 
to avoid him when I found he was there.” 

“Why?” 

“Because—-well, the whole affair is a private mat¬ 
ter.” 

“You need not tell us unless you wish to, Mr. 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 155 

Grayson,” interposed the Chief Constable. “But if 
the rest of your story is correct it will materially 
help us to account for your hasty departure.” 

“Very well,” said the young man after a moment’s 
thought, “there is really nothing to conceal. Some 
years ago my father was involved in a lawsuit with 
Mr. Templeton—and won it. Templeton had to sell 
his estate to pay the costs, and my father bought 
it. He hated the lot of us, and, I think, justly, 
because it’s always been my opinion that my father 
was not so much in the right as the law said he 
was. My father knows I think this. Well, if you 
want the truth, when I knew that Templeton was 
at Marsh Quay I didn’t want him to see me, because 
I’m a bit ashamed of the whole affair. I watched to 
see him come off the yacht to make q:,Re sure it 
was he, and when I saw it was, I made up my mind 
to leave early the next morning. That’s all there 
is in it.” 

The superintendent nodded thoughtfully. 

“You don’t happen to know the name of Mr. 
Templeton’s solicitors when this case was tried, I 
suppose?” 

“Yes, I do. Of course I remember. Sir Henry 
Cateford was his counsel—I forget the name of the 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


156 

junior—and his solicitors were Crosby and Paxton, 
well-known people, I believe.” 

The Chief Constable and the superintendent ex¬ 
changed glances, but Colson broke in at that moment. 

“Do you recognise this cigar?” he asked, showing 
him the crushed one he had received from Tom 
Gale. 

Grayson examined it. 

“IPs the same brand I’ve been smoking lately,” he 
said. “I couldn’t swear, of course, that it’s one of 
my actual cigars. What of it? If I can explain 
anything I’m quite willing to do so.” 

“Can you tell us if you smoked one of your cigars 
on board Mr. Templeton’s yacht, then?” asked 
Colson. 

“I never was on his yacht. Why do you ask?” 

The detective did not reply to this. He asked 
another question: 

“Can you account for your movements from ten 
o’clock on Saturday night to, say, six o’clock on 
the following morning?” 

“No, I can’t,” replied Grayson. 

“Why not?” 

“Because I happened to be asleep. I went to bed 
at the ‘Mariner’s Arms’ just before ten, and I woke 
up at a quarter-past six. I can’t help you there.” 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 157 

“It was to help you that the question was asked,” 
said the superintendent gravely. 

The young man gave a short laugh. 

“I see what you mean,” he said, “but the same 
thing applies to a score or so of people who were 
sleeping close to the quay that night, doesn’t it? I 
can’t prove an alibi any more than they can.” 

The Chief Constable shrugged his shoulders, but 
would not commit himself. 

“Well, Mr. Grayson,” he said, “thank you for 
all you have told us. I’m sorry we must detain 
you for a time, but I hope, for your sake, it will not 
be long. Superintendent Norton will do his best to 
make you comfortable. We shan’t lock you up in a 
cell, you know—unless we see cause to arrest you. 
But you won’t be allowed to leave the house.” 

“Well?” he asked when Grayson was out of the 
room. 

“I’m not satisfied yet,” said Colson. “There’s that 
matter of the cigar band. I’d like to have it identi¬ 
fied by Canon Fittleworth. I don’t expect it, but 
he may help us there.” 

The superintendent laughed. 

“Don’t be too down on the parson, Colson,” he 
said. “We’ll see what he says by and by. Mean- 


158 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

while, Mr. Crosby ought to be here. He can identify 
Grayson’s statement about the lawsuit, sir.” 

“Yes,” said the Chief Constable, “I agree.” 

A few minutes later Crosby came in, by appoint¬ 
ment, and was told of the detention of Grayson 
and the statement he had made. 

“I can verify all he says about there being ill- 
feeling between my late client and Grayson’s fam¬ 
ily,” he said. “That’s perfectly true. I don’t know 
this young Grayson personally, but from what I’ve 
heard of him he’s all right. He did splendidly in 
the war, I know—and he’s had to pay for it—yes— 
shell-shock, Major. That’s all right. As to what 
you tell me about the cigar band, you’ll get Canon 
Fittleworth to identify it, I suppose? Exactly. As 
it’s a fairly well-known brand, I shouldn’t think 
there’s much upon which to build a case; but that’s 
your lookout. Whoever the fellow is, I hope you’ll 
get him. Now, I’m returning to London immedi¬ 
ately after the funeral. I shall come down to the 
adjourned inquest, of course. But is there anything 
else I ought to know?” 

“We’re in confidence, Mr. Crosby?” asked the 
wary superintendent. 

“Of course. As the legal representative of the 
deceased I shall naturally observe that.” 


HAROLD GRAYSON IS DETAINED 159 

“We’d like to show you a few things we found 
in the cabin, then. Colson, where are they?” 

Colson, who had stipulated that at this juncture 
no mention should be made of the walking-stick— 
he was emphatic on this point—produced the cham¬ 
ois leather bag, the diamond and the blotting-pad. 
From the latter he had transcribed the scraps of 
writing, in print capitals, onto a piece of ordinary 
paper. 

The lawyer looked at the exhibits shrewdly. 

“Wonder what he was doing with diamonds,” he 
said. “Of course there were more than this one. 
And the bag was not tied up, you say? H’m— 
queer I Yes—I see—the first letter you’ve put to¬ 
gether very well. Evidently his appointment, with 
Moss. You’ve got your eye on him, eh?” 

“One of us will probably run up to interview him 
to-morrow,” said the superintendent. “He’s under 
observation.” 

“Of course—good. And this other bit of writing 

- Gad! it’s a poser, isn’t it? Have you made 

it out?” 

“Not yet,” said Colson. 

“I’ll take a copy. I’m rather keen on this sort 
of thing. I’ll see what I can make of it. Of course, 
as you say, it might be of importance—if in any 



i6o THE TEMPLETON CASE 

way it put you on the track of the individual with 
whom Templeton had an appointment on Saturday 
night.” He copied it carefully. “You’ve allowed for 
the blank spaces in the original?” he asked Colson. 

“Yes.” 

The lawyer studied the letters for a minute. 
a d ver zr ice s o ion & roo 
s is nal 

“There’s one point about it that strikes one,” he 
said. “I dare say you’ve noticed it, sergeant. There 
aren’t many words that have the letters ZR close 
together. The only one I can think of is ‘Ezra,’ 
eh?” 

“I thought of that, too, sir.” 

The superintendent was looking over the lawyer’s 
shoulder. He laughed. 

“Ezra’s ices!” he exclaimed. “Sounds like an 
Italian Jew and an ice-cream barrow!” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE CANON'S CIGARS 

One can only suppose that the morbid curiosity 
which always attracts a crowd of people to the 
burial of a suicide or victim of a murder repays the 
onlookers in some sense or other. It is difficult to 
say how it does so. The utmost they see or hear 
is a glimpse of an ordinary coffin and the words 
of the Burial Service. 

It was a large crowd that gathered on the Tuesday 
afternoon to witness the funeral of Reginald Temple¬ 
ton, which took place in the cemetery a mile out 
of Frattenbury. There were few mourners. The 
Canon's brother, a retired colonel, had run down 
for the occasion and occupied the leading mourning 
coach with the Canon himself and Winnie Cotterill. 
Crosby and the doctor who had attended the case 
came in the other. 

On the return journey to the city, Winnie Cot¬ 
terill, who was seated next to the Canon, remarked: 

“It's a curious thing, Canon Fittleworth, but sev- 
161 


162 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


eral times I’ve had the impression that Frattenbury 
is familiar to me.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes,” said the girl. “It’s just come over me now. 
That view of the Cathedral spire—and the little 
stream of water we’ve just crossed—it’s just as if 
I’ve seen them before.” 

“Perhaps you have,” said the Canon. 

The girl shook her head. 

“I don’t see how I can,” she replied; “I’ve never 
been here before, so far as I know.” 

“Well, you see,” said the Canon, with a little 
pride, “our Cathedral is pretty well known, and I 
dare say you’ve seen pictures or photographs of it. 
That might account for it.” 

“Perhaps,” replied Winnie slowly, “but it doesn’t 
seem to—it’s that funny sort of feeling that I’ve 
been here, don’t you know?”C«^ c ,^ 

“Yes, I know,” said Colonel Fittle^vorth, “it’s a 
psychological curiosity. I’ve had it myself often. 
‘There are more things in heaven and earth—’ 
eh, Charles?” 

“True. Possibly,” he went on to the girl, “you’ve 
heard people describing Frattenbury.” 

She laughed. 

“I’m afraid you’ll think me very ignorant,” she 


THE CANON’S CIGARS 


163 

said, “but I don’t think I ever heard of Frattenbury 
till I read about the murder in the paper yesterday 
morning. I’ve never even been in the South of Eng¬ 
land.” 

“We’re not so famous as we thought we were, 
Miss Cotterill,” said the Canon with a smile. “What 
do you think of our War Memorial?” 

They were passing through a little square just at 
the entry of the city, in the centre of which stood 
one of those, now familiar, erections which are to 
remind people that the Great European War was 
characterised by many atrocities. 

She looked at it, shrugged her shoulders—it may 
have been the expression of an opinion—and then, 
closing her eyes, said slowly: 

“It looks as if there ought to be a big lamp-post 
there, instead.” 

“There was,” replied the Canon dryly. “I don’t 
know that I didn’t prefer it. Really, Miss Cotterill, 
you must have considerable psychic powers.” 

“I never knew it till now.” 

A minute or two later they entered the Cathedral 
precincts, and drew up at the Canon’s residence. As 
they got out Mr. Norwood happened to be passing. 
He raised his hat and bowed in his stiff, formal 
maner. Winnie Cotterill looked at him intently. 


164 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“Who was that?” she asked the Canon as they 
went into the house. 

“One of our Frattenbury solicitors—a Mr. Nor¬ 
wood,” replied the Canon. 

“It’s that queer sensation again,” remarked the 
girl. “When he took his hat off it seemed to me 
exactly as if I’d seen him before—only that he’s 
older or something.” 

“Well, it’s quite possible. Although he’s lived 
all his life in Frattenbury he’s often in London. 
One really meets—quite casually—many people who 
leave an impression on one.” 

“I suppose it’s that,” said Winnie. “It must be— 
of course.” 

“Is his name familiar to you?” 

“Not a bit. I never heard it before.” 

There were several letters for the Canon lying 
on the hall table. He took them up, saying as he 
did so: 

“Tea ought to be ready. I expect you’ll find Mrs. 
Fittleworth in the drawing-room. Do you mind tell¬ 
ing her I’ll be there in a minute?” 

She hesitated. 

“Canon Fittleworth?” 

“Yes.” 

“If you can find out whether the police have 


THE CANON’S CIGARS 165 

done anything—about Mr. Grayson—before I go, 
I should be so grateful.” 

“I will,” he said. ‘Til go round to the police 
station immediately after tea.” 

“It’s awfully good of you.” 

He nodded and smiled. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. 

Then, as she went into the drawing-room, he 
opened his letters. His face looked grave as he read 
one of them, a note from the police superintendent. 

Dear Sir, 

We have detained, on suspicion, the young art¬ 
ist, named Grayson, who was staying at the 
“Mariner’s Arms” at Marsh Quay. I shall be 
gratejul if you can kindly make it convenient 
to call here any time between five and six this 
afternoon. We want you to corroborate a small 
matter. I called this morning, but you were out, 
and I was told you would not be disengaged till 
after the funeral. Will you kindly bring with 
you one of your cigars similar to that which you 
say contained the band found by you at Marsh 
Quay? 

Yours faithfully, 

Thomas Norton. 


i66 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


He thought for a moment, and then went into his 
study and rang the bell. 

“Tel! your mistress I want to see her for a minute,” 
he told the maid. 

“My dear,” he said to his wife when she came 
in, “the police have written to tell me they have 
that young man, Grayson, detained at the police 
station. I had only just promised Miss Cotterill 
to go round after tea and make inquiries, before she 
leaves. I shall have to go in any case. They’ve 
asked me.” 

“Poor child,” said Mrs. Fittleworth, “she seems 
very much concerned about Mr. Grayson. I think 
she’s fond of him, Charles. I hope he isn’t the 
murderer.” 

The Canon shrugged his shoulders. 

“That’s not for us to judge,” he said, “nor must 
we jump at hasty conclusions. If there’s nothing 
against him, however, I should like to be able to tell 
Miss Cotterill before she goes.” He looked at his 
watch. “Her train leaves in less than an hour—and 
they may keep me at the police station longer than 
I thought.” 

Mrs. Fittleworth, out of the kindness of her heart, 
rose to the occasion. 

“She shall stay another night. I’ll persuade her. 


THE CANON’S CIGARS 


167 

I like the girl very much, Charles. You see, if 
there’s nothing really against the young man we 
ought to know in the morning. And if there is, well, 
perhaps I can comfort her a little.” 

The Canon beamed his satisfaction. 

“I quite agree,” he said. “Don’t tell her just now 
that the police have detained him.” 

“Don’t you let it out, dear!” she replied. “Give 
me five minutes to persuade her to stay, and then 
come in to tea.” 

Left to himself, Canon Fittleworth opened his 
cigar cupboard and took out a box. He was about 
to place one of the three or four remaining cigars 
in his case, when he stopped. 

“Yes,” he murmured, “I’ll take the box itself 
round. I ought to have thought of that before. It 
may be useful!” 

After tea he went round to the police station and 
was shown into the superintendent’s private office, 
where he found, with that functionary, Major Ren- 
shaw and Colson. 

“Sorry to give you the trouble, Canon,” said 
Major Renshaw, “but we’ve detained this young 
man on suspicion, and you may help us. So far, 
I’m bound to admit, he’s given a straightforward 
account of himself. His story sounded a little thin 


i68 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


at first, but we’ve corroborated it as far as we were 
able. Only, there’s one point that is dead against 
him. And that’s where you come in.” 

“What is that?” asked the Canon. 

The Chief Constable nodded to Colson to go on. 

“Well, sir,” said the detective, “you produced, 
at the inquest, yesterday, a cigar band which you 
stated you found in Mr. Templeton’s cabin.” 

“I did.” 

“You would recognise it again?” 

“Most certainly. I said, you remember, that it 
was the same brand as my own cigars.” 

The detective smiled pityingly. 

“That may be,” he said with a touch of sarcasm 
in his voice; “at all events we want you to tell us 
now—is this the band?” 

And he took from his pocket-case the band which 
had figured at the inquest. The Canon took a quick 
glance at it. 

“No. Certainly not!” he exclaimed. 

The three men looked at him in surprise. Colson 
ejaculated: 

“Great Scott!” 

Then he said: 

“Come, sir—it must be.” 

“I tell you it isn’t. It’s entirely different. The 


THE CANON’S CIGARS 169 

band I found in the cabin, and handed in yesterday 
afternoon, was similar to these.” 

And he opened his own cigar box. 

“But this is the band you handed in yesterday, 
sir,” exclaimed Colson, pointing to the one he had 
just produced. 

“It is nothing of the kind,” said the Canon a little 
hotly. “I am ready to swear to that.” 

There was a moment or two of intense silence, 
and then the superintendent said to Colson: 

“Are you sure this is the band you received from 
the inquest?” 

Colson, who, like the Canon, did not relish his 
integrity being shaken, replied stiffly: 

“Quite sure, sir. I saw the Canon lay it on the 
table, an-” 

“But you didn’t examine it closely then,” broke 
in the Canon. 

“No—but I watched it being passed from man 
to man of the jury, and when it was finally put 
down on the table I didn’t remove my eyes from 
it till it was in my hands.” 

The superintendent slowly nodded his head. 

“You are quite certain, Canon?” he asked again. 

“Absolutely. This is not the band I laid on the 
table.” 



170 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

Colson gave a low whistle and then pursed up 
his lips. 

“There may be an explanation/ 7 he said, “and a 
very significant one, too. But it is most important 
that these facts do not get about. May we rely on 
your discretion, Canon Fittleworth?” 

“Decidedly. Of course I shall say nothing.” 

“Well—the point is this, Canon Fittleworth. Now 
that you know so much I may as well tell you. 
This young Grayson was smoking a brand of cigars 
similar to that off which this particular band, which 
you repudiate, came. You will admit it was damning 
evidence against him.” 

“It certainly was,” said the Canon. “I am only 
too glad to have helped to clear an innocent man. 77 

“Yes, 77 said the Chief Constable thoughtfully, “I 
suppose—I suppose this clears him—but- 77 

Colson, who had sprung to his feet suddenly, 
interrupted him. 

“Wait a bit, 77 he exclaimed, “I’ll make still more 
certain. Can I borrow your motor-bike sir?” he 
asked the superintendent. “I’ll be back in twenty 
minutes—or less.” 

The superintendent nodded. 

“All right, Colson.” 

“I’ll wait till he comes back,” said the Canon. 



THE CANON’S CIGARS 


171 

“I am anxious, for certain reasons, to see this young 
man set at liberty before I go home.” 

“I’m glad you’re staying,” said the superintendent, 
who was examining one of the Canon’s cigars. “I 
want to have a talk with you about this. I see 
what you mean. This is a brand I don’t know at 
all.” 

“I don’t suppose you do,” replied the Canon. 
“They are not on the market. A Spanish friend 
of mine sent them me direct from Cuba. They’re 
something very special.” 

“Why didn’t you say this at the inquest, sir?” 

The Canon hesitated. 

“Well—er—I really was so very much taken 
aback at Norwood’s manner—I am not accustomed 
to be spoken to like that—in public. And it made 
me forget what I should otherwise have said.” 

Again the superintendent addressed him in sorrow¬ 
ful rebuke: 

“Oh, Canon Fittleworth! You really ought to 
have told the jury—or even if you forgot it at that 
moment, you might have told us. See the trouble 
to which you have put us.” 

The worthy Canon bristled a little. 

“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked. 

“Well—sir—when we saw what sort of a brand 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


172 

it was, fairly ordinary, we didn’t think it worth 
while.” 

“Ah,” said the Canon, a twinkle in his eye now, 
“see the trouble you have given yourselves! If you’d 
only remembered that I said it was a particular 
brand!” 

“Come, Canon,” interposed the Chief Constable 
with a laugh, “we mustn’t get acrimonious about it. 
It’s a little mistake on both sides. But now what 
you’ve got to do is to try to remember if anyone 
else but yourself smoked cigars taken from that 
box.” 

“Certainly,” replied the Canon, “I can remember 
at the moment someone who took a cigar out of my 
box.” 

“Who was it?” asked the Chief Constable eagerly. 

“You yourself, Renshaw—last time you dined with 
me. And you remarked what an excellent smoke 
it was.” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the Chief Constable. “You 
want to fix the murder on me, eh?” 

The Canon joined in the laugh. 

“Circumstantial evidence, eh?” he said. 

“But, seriously, Canon,” went on Major Renshaw, 
“I don’t expect you to do it now, but I do ask you 
to shut yourself up in your study and make a big 


THE CANON’S CIGARS 


173 

effort of memory. It’s wonderful how one can recall 
little details if one really tries. Write out the names 
of everyone —everyone mind—even the most un¬ 
likely persons—to whom you remember you offered 
a cigar out of that box. And if you can call to mind 
anybody who took away a cigar out of your house 
without smoking it, that will be most important.” 

“Very well,” replied the Canon, “I’ll do what 
you suggest. My circle of friends is a fairly respec- 
able one, however, and I hope I don’t number a 
murderer among them.” 

Meanwhile Colson had rushed over to Marsh 
Quay. It was not yet six o’clock, so the inn was 
not open. He knocked at the door and Mrs. Yates 
let him in. Satisfying himself that there was no one 
else about, he said to her: 

“As I told you before, Mrs. Yates, I look upon 
you as an exceedingly discreet woman. Now, I 
want you to keep your mouth shut about what I’m 
going to ask you.” 

“I will, Mr. Colson.” 

“You’ve got a good memory, eh?” 

“I hope so, sir.” 

“Well, try and remember now. This young man 
who was lodging with you, what did his luggage 
consist of?” 


174 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“It was placed in a holdall he carried on the back 
of his bicycle. There was a satchel in front, and 
one of them folding things what they put their 
pictures on when they paints them.” 

“An easel?” 

“That’s it, sir.” 

“Anything else—an umbrella?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Or a walking-stick?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Are you quite sure? I want you to be very care¬ 
ful.” 

“I’m quite sure, Mr. Colson, and I’ll tell you 
for why. First of all, I helped him undo his luggage 
when he arrived, and secondly, he borrowed this 
here stick—what used to belong to my late hus¬ 
band—several times when he went out walkin’. I 
can swear to that.” 

The detective glanced at a brown polished walk¬ 
ing-stick with a knob at the end. 

“All right,” he said. “That’s all I want to know. 
And I’ll give you a bit of information in return. 
It’s pretty certain he isn’t the man we want.” 

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Colson. I liked the 
young feller.” 


THE CANON’S CIGARS 


175 

The detective had turned to go, but paused a 
minute. 

“It would be better for him still, Mrs. Yates, 
if you could prove that he was really in your house 
all night.” 

“Well, sir—I’m sure he was here till past one in 
the morning.” 

“Why?” 

“He went to bed just before ten, sir. I had a 
toothache that night which kept me awake till just 
after one. And the way that young man snored was 
enough to keep anyone awake—let alone the tooth¬ 
ache.” 

The detective laughed. 

“That’s all right, then.” 

“We’ve eliminated one of the three,” he said to 
himself as he rode back. “And that’s not a bad 
bit 0’ work, anyhow.” 

When he arrived at the police station the Canon 
was still there. The detective whispered a few words 
to the superintendent and Major Renshaw, and the 
latter said: 

“You’ll be glad to know, Canon, that we needn’t 
detain this young man any longer. Would you like 
to see him before you go?” 

“I should, very much.” 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


176 

When Grayson came in, Major Renshaw shook 
hands with him. 

“We’re quite satisfied about you, Mr. Grayson, 
and I must apologise for detaining you. But a 
stranger who goes off suddenly and mysteriously 
from the scene of a murder must expect to rouse 
suspicions—and you certainly did. Let me intro¬ 
duce you to my friend, Canon Fittleworth. You 
really owe your freedom this evening to him— 
though he won’t tell you why, because he mustn’t.” 

“Fm sure I’m most grateful to you, sir,” said the 
young artist to the Canon. 

“Delighted,” replied the latter. “I’m so glad to 
have been of any use in getting you out of an awk¬ 
ward predicament.” 

“Now, Mr. Grayson,” went on the Chief Con¬ 
stable, “we brought you in from Linderton this morn¬ 
ing against your will. Will you allow me to send 
you back in my motor?” 

“Well,” replied Grayson, “I think I’ll get a bed 
in Frattenbury. My holiday was nearly up, and I 
shall return to town to-morrow. I can walk out in 
the morning and get my machine and the rest of 
my belongings.” 

“No, you won’t,” said Major Renshaw, anxious to 
make amends. “I’ll have them sent in—yes, you’ll 


THE CANON’S CIGARS 


177 


be comfortable at the 'Dolphin’—they shall be there 
early to-morrow morning. Good night—stop—let 
me have your address in case we want you.” 

The Canon, leaving his cigar box with the police, 
walked out of the station with Grayson and directed 
him to the hotel. Then he said: 

"As the nearest relative of poor Templeton—I’m 
his cousin, you know—I should like to offer you a 
slight return for all the trouble you’ve gone through 
to-day. Will you give us the pleasure of dining with 
us to-night—at half-past seven?” 

"It’s awfully kind of you, sir—but I haven’t any 
dress clothes with me.” 

"That doesn’t matter in the least. You will? 
That’s right, then. Good-bye for the present.” 

And the Canon chuckled as he went his way home. 
And his wife agreed he had done the right thing. 
When the Canon took the young artist into the 
drawing-room, just before dinner that night, Winnie 
Cotterill looked up with a start—and Grayson’s eyes 
sparkled. 

"Winnie!” he exclaimed, "I didn’t expect to meet 
you here. This is a pleasant surprise.” 

"Miss Cotterill has been anxious to know about 
you,” said Mrs. Fittleworth. "She heard you were 
in danger of arrest.” 


i 7 8 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“So I brought you round to show her that you’re 
really free/’ said the Canon, rubbing his hands. 

“I’m most awfully glad to see—you’ve escaped 
from the police,” said Winnie. “I knew you couldn’t 
have done the murder.” 

“Come along,” said the Canon. “Mr. Grayson, 
will you take my wife in to dinner, please?” and he 
offered his own arm to Winnie Cotterill. 

“You’re a perfect dear, Canon Fittleworth,” said 
the girl as they crossed the hall. “How clever you 
must have been to get him off.” 

“Oh, I didn’t get him off, as you call it, Miss 
Cotterill. I helped to explain something, that’s all. 
Now you won’t worry any more.” 

“Of course not.” 

“I don’t think you need!” said the Canon dryly, 
a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. 


CHAPTER XII 


FRESH EVIDENCE 

The three police officials, after the departure of 
the Canon and Grayson, looked thoughtfully at each 
other for a few moments. The Chief Constable said: 

“Well—there’s an end of young Grayson, as far 
as we are concerned.” 

Colson was heard to mutter something beneath his 
breath that sounded like “blighted parson.” Then 
the Chief Constable went on: 

“I’ve asked Canon Fittleworth, Colson, to try to 
remember anyone who had any of his cigars.” 

Colson nodded. He took one of the Canon’s cigars 
out of the box, looked at it, put it in his case, and 
carefully examined the label on the outside of the 
box. 

“Well?” asked the superintendent. 

“I don’t altogether depend on the Canon, sir. 
Other people might get hold of these cigars as well— 
if they’ve friends in Cuba, or are in the trade. Of 
course I agree with you, sir,” he went on to Major 
Renshaw, “and we must take note of anyone who 
179 


i8o 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


had a cigar from the Canon. But it isn’t there I 
fancy that we shall find our man. May I venture 
to give an opinion?” 

“Do,” said the others. 

“Well, it’s fairly obvious that the original cigar 
band was changed while passing round the jury. 
I’ve got my suspicions—but I won’t say just now.” 

“Ought we to tell the coroner, and get the jury— 
or any suspected person on it—dismissed?” asked 
Major Renshaw. 

“By no means, sir. That’s what I was just coming 
to. The man who changed that band should be the 
same as the individual who went after the walking- 
stick. We don’t want to rouse his suspicions at this 
stage. Let him think the band has gone the same 
way as the stick—that we’ve lost both clues.” 

“How?” asked the superintendent. 

“By making it public, just so far as we choose, 
and no farther. The blight—the Canon’s bungled it 
up till now. If he’d only given us that band, instead 
of producing it at the inquest, we could have kept 
it dark. As it is, every newspaper’s got a head-line 
with 4 The Cigar Band Clue—What are the Police 
doing?’ and all that rot. Well, let’s keep it up. Let 
the public think we’ve tested the clue and that we’re 
satisfied there’s nothing in it.” 

“There’s a lot in what he says,” remarked the 


FRESH EVIDENCE 181 

superintendent to the Chief Constable, who nodded 
agreement. 

“Let the newspaper fellows know this—give ’em 
an ‘official statement.’ They love that. And if you, 
sir,” to Major Renshaw, “could mention it, casual 
like, it would help.” 

“I’m dining out at Mr. Norwood’s to-night,” said 
the Chief Constable—“one of what he calls his bach¬ 
elor dinners. Dr. Hazell is sure to be there. He’s 
the biggest gossip in the place. It will be all over 
Frattenbury to-morrow if I mention it—ha, ha— 
‘on the authority of the Chief Constable.’ ” 

“That’s exactly what I want, sir,” said the de¬ 
tective eagerly. “It’ll give more weight locally than 
all the newspapers. And I’ve got a sort of inspira¬ 
tion that we haven’t to go out of the district to find 
our man.” 

“Unless, after all, it should happen to be Moss?” 
said the Chief Constable. 

“He’s not really out of the district—and we’ll see 
him to-morrow,” replied Colson. 

“If there’s nothing to keep us here, we’re both 
going up to London to-morrow morning,” explained 
the superintendent. “Oh, and by the way, sir, all 
known dealers in rough stones have been warned 
—and there’s an eye being kept on certain fences. 


182 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


Not that it’s likely that the murderer—if he’s got 
the stones—would sell them just now.” 

“And it’s probable that they’re not far off,” said 
Colson dryly. 

“Well,” said the Chief Constable, rising from his 
seat, “I’m off. I must dress for dinner. If you 
want me, Superintendent, ring up Norwood, he’s on 
the ’phone. I shall be there till about eleven.” 

The little dinners which Francis Norwood gave 
periodically were as stiff and formal as Francis 
Norwood himself. But they were always good, and 
his port was of excellent vintage. There were four 
guests that night—all of the male sex. The coroner 
rarely invited ladies, and then only the wives of his 
intimate friends. He sat, stiff and erect, at the 
head of the table, on his right Major Renshaw and 
Sir Peter Birchnal, a local magnate and magistrate, 
on his left a clean-shaven, round-faced man of short 
but rather portly dimensions, who was the Dr. Hazell 
referred to by the Chief Constable, and a com¬ 
fortable-looking clergyman, the Reverend Alfred 
Carringford, the vicar of the parish in which the 
coroner resided. 

The maid—Norwood had no men-servants—had 
just put on the dessert with its accompaniments of 
wine and a box of cigars. Norwood passed round 


FRESH EVIDENCE 183 

the port, and helped himself when it reached him 
again. 

Sir Peter held his glass up to the light, took a 
sip, and smiled approvingly. 

“ ’72, if’m not mistaken, Norwood?” 

Norwood nodded. 

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry to say I’ve only a few 
more bottles left. And it’s too heavy a price to-day, 
even if there’s any on the market.” 

Dr. Hazell raised his eyebrows and shook his 
head knowingly. Norwood was reputed to be a 
wealthy man, and the little doctor was sceptical. 

“If you want to replenish your cellar, I can put 
you on to a good thing, Norwood,” went on Sir 
Peter. 

“Indeed?” 

“Buy ‘Virginian Reefs.’ They’re bound to go up. 
I happen to have seen the engineer’s latest report. 
It’s a safe thing.” 

“ ‘Virginian Reefs,’ eh?” said Dr. Hazell, taking 
out his notebook. “You recommend them, do you, 
Sir Peter?” 

“I hold some myself,” replied the Baronet pom¬ 
pously, and with the air of one who could not be 
wrong. 

Norwood shook his head and smiled his dry little 
smile. 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


184 

“We lawyers are not over-keen on speculation/’ 
he said. “ ‘Virginian Reefs’—yes. I imagined they 
were in low water.” 

“Seven and sixpence was yesterday’s price, but 
they’ll go to three and four pounds. The general 
public know nothing yet, of course. This is the 
chance for picking them up.” 

Norwood, who was peeling an apple, at this point 
sent round the cigars. Carringford remarked as he 
lighted one: 

“That was a strange circumstance—the discovery 
of that cigar band by Fittleworth in that Marsh 
Quay case.” 

He looked at Norwood as he spoke. The coroner 
replied stiffly: 

“You can’t expect me to discuss that, Vicar.” 

“I suppose not,” said the doctor, “but it was a 
queer thing, as you say, Carringford. I suppose, 
Major,” and he leaned his elbows on the table and 
looked across at the Chief Constable, “I suppose the 
whole thing is keeping you pretty busy?” 

“Naturally,” replied Major Renshaw, cutting and 
lighting his cigar. 

“Now here,” and the doctor held up the band he 
had just removed from his own cigar, “here is an 
innocent enough looking thing, and yet it might 
hang a man in this case, easily enough. You police- 


FRESH EVIDENCE 


185 

men have to note the merest trifles—well, just as we 
doctors do sometimes. A tiny symptom, Major—the 
flutter of an eyelid, a pain in the little finger, so to 
speak—but we know it points to a fatal disease. 
And I suppose you attach the greatest importance 
to this bit of red paper. It’s the clue, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, come now,” said Sir Peter, “you’re asking 
leading questions of the police. It won’t do, Doc¬ 
tor.” 

Major Renshaw removed the cigar from his mouth, 
puffed a volume of smoke across the table, and said: 

“Oh, I don’t know. As a matter of fact, I don’t 
mind saying that we attach very little importance 
to that cigar band.” 

“Really?” asked the coroner, sipping his port. 
“I confess I shouldn’t have thought that—though 
I don’t wish of course, to give an opinion.” 

“No,” went on the Chief Constable, “I don’t think 
there’s much in it. And, as a matter of fact, we’ve 
tested it already. The brand was more common 
than Canon Fittleworth led us to suppose, and, after 
all, very likely had nothing to do with the murder 
at all. It might have been in the cabin for days.” 

“Dear me,” said the doctor, who was listening 
intently. “That’s rather a disappointment to you, 
isn’t it?” 

The Major shrugged his shoulders. 


i86 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“It’s not much use following up such a very 
doubtful clue,” he admitted. 

Norwood apparently did not care for the subject 
of the murder to be discussed. In his position as 
coroner this was natural. He addressed a counter¬ 
remark across the table to Carringford: 

“I’ve just read the speech you made at the Dio¬ 
cesan Conference on Parochial Church Councils, 
Vicar. You must let me congratulate you.” 

The clergyman, pleased with the compliment, was 
launching forth on matters ecclesiastical—to the in¬ 
tense boredom of Sir Peter—when the maid entered. 

“Please, sir, someone wants to speak to Major 
Renshaw on the telephone.” 

“You know where it is, Major—in the hall,” said 
Norwood. 

“Thanks.” 

The Chief Constable went to the telephone. 

“Hullo—yes-” 

The voice of the superintendent replied. 

“Can you come at once, sir? It’s important.” 

“All right.” 

“I’m sorry, Norwood,” he said, as he went back 
into the dining-room, “but I’ll have to go—I’m 
wanted.” 

“Anything fresh—about the murder?” asked Dr. 
Hazell. 



FRESH EVIDENCE 


187 


“I don’t know.” 

“Ah,” said the doctor, pointing a finger at him, 
“you and I both get rung up in our professions. 
Only there’s a difference. They call me up to save 
lives—and they summon you to help in catching an 
unfortunate wretch for the gallows, eh?” 

“Perhaps. Good night,” replied the Chief Con¬ 
stable. 

When he reached the police station he found the 
superintendent, Colson, and a strong odour of stale 
beer, which emanated from the mouth of a peculiar 
individual. He was a rough-looking man of about 
forty, dressed in old, patched, corduroy breeches, 
brow leather gaiters, and a big, loose jacket, well- 
worn. He had a very red, beery-looking face, un¬ 
brushed black hair and whiskers, and a pair of 
sharp-looking dark eyes like a ferret’s. The Chief 
Constable looked at him and said severely: 

“It’s you, is it, Thatcher? What mischief have 
you been up to now?” 

The man shifted his dirty, soft hat from one hand 
to the other, and replied in a surly, thick tone of 
voice: 

“I ain’t done nothin’, Major—s’elp me I ain’t. 
I’ve told ’im what I come ’ere for.” 

And he jerked his head towards the superinten¬ 
dent. 


i88 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“It’s all right, sir,” said that functionary, “he’s 
come of his own accord this time. He wants to 
make a statement.” 

“What about?” 

“That ’ere murder—over at Marsh Quay,” said 
Thatcher. 

“What do you know about it?” 

“Look ’ere, Major,” replied Joe Thatcher, “I 
doan’t say as how I ain’t got into trouble time and 
agen. You knows that. And I ain’t given to have 
naught to do with the police as long as they lets me 
aloane—which they doan’t always do, damn ’em! 
But I draws the line at murder, I does. I doan’t 
hold with it, and that’s why I come here to-night.” 

“Go on. What have you got to tell us?” 

A wicked, artful leer broke over the man’s face. 

“If I tells you what I knows—you woan’t ask 
me what I was a-doin’ of that night? I doan’t want 
to come up before the beaks just because I was 
havin’ a constitootional, as they calls it, when other 
folks were asleep.” 

“All right, Thatcher,” said the superintendent. 
“We’ve got your record, and we know pretty well 
what you’re up to when you take your midnight 
walks abroad. But you needn’t fear in this case. If 
you’ve got any information about the murder at 
Marsh Quay we’ll forget the rest.” 


FRESH EVIDENCE 189 

“That’s what my missus said, she did. I told her 
what I seen—and she says, ‘You go and tell the 
police, Joe.’ I kept on sayin’ I wouldn’t, and that’s 
why I didn’t come afore. An’ she kept a-naggin’ 
on me, till I saw life was going to be a little hell 
if I didn’t come. And here I be.” 

“Go on, my man,” said the Chief Constable en¬ 
couragingly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of; tell 
us about it.” 

“Well, ’tis like this. Saturday night I went out 
for a walk—late. I doan’t say as I hadn’t a gun 
wi’ me—but that’s naught to do wi’ it—be it?” 

“Nothing at all,” said Major Renshaw with a 
laugh. 

“I got down and round about them stubble-fields 
and spinneys along near the quay—but I didn’t have 
no luck.” 

“No,” said the Major dryly. “We had a big shoot 
there last week, and cleared out most of the birds.” 

“So I found,” said the poacher brazenly. “Now 
—that ’ere wood, t’other side o’ the water. Some¬ 
times there’s a goodish few—sparrers, we’ll say—to 
be found there, and it wouldn’t ha’ been the first 
time as I’d borrowed one o’ they canoes and slipped 
over for an hour or so. O’ course I returned the 
canoe when I’d finished. I ain’t no thief—thank 
Gawd!” 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


190 

The others grinned at him, but were silent. It 
was best for the man to tell his story in his own way. 

“It was between half-past twelve and one as I 
got down to the quay—I alius reckons to know the 
time within a few minutes—’tis a habit o’ mine. 
There was no one about and ’twas a still night. 
There was a light on board that ’ere little yacht 
where the murder was, but I didn’t hear any sound. 
I was a-standin’ on the quay, a-makin’ up my mind 
whether ’twas worth while crossing over, when I 
heard the sound of a boat bein’ pulled across—from 
the other side.” 

“From the other side?” asked Colson. 

“That’s right. I wondered what anyone was 
a-doin’ that time 0’ night—when respectable folk 
ought to be abed and asleep.” He grinned. “I can 
see pretty well in the dark—I has to in my perfes- 
sion—so I jist lay low and watched. Whoever it 
was, he warn’t no boatman, by the way he mucked 
that ’ere boat about. The tide was flowin’ in and 
he had to pull hard. When he got across he made 
straight for that ’ere yacht where the lights was 
burnin’. Clumsy, he was, too. He didn’t ’arf bump 
the nose o’ his boat into the yacht when he got to 
her. You could hear the bang all over the place.” 

“What did he do then?” 

“Why, Major, he got aboard the yacht and went 


FRESH EVIDENCE 


191 

in the cabin. I see him quite plainly. But he never 
stayed there long. In less than five minutes he was 
out again, clamberin’ into the boat, and pullin’ away 
across stream as hard as ever he could go. Seemed 
in a mighty hurry, he did. Just then I heard the 
Cathedral clock strike one.” 

“What did you do?” 

“I lit a pipe and waited a bit—quarter of an hour 
or less, I reckon. I was thinkin’ it wouldn’t do to 
cross over to the wood that night. And then the 
motor-car come along.” 

“The motor-car!” ejaculated the superintendent. 

“Yes, sir—come down the road.” 

“To the quay?” 

“No, sir. It stopped about thirty or forty yards 
before it got to the quay. I could see the lights.” 

“Did you see who was in it?” 

“No, sir; I made tracks along the shore. Thinks 
I, ‘There’s too many folks about to-night for an 
honest chap to get a livin’,’ so I come straight home. 
And that’s all about it.” 

They questioned him sharply, but he stuck to his 
story. Then the superintendent said: 

“You’ll probably have to tell all this to the jury— 
at the adjourned inquest.” 

“It won’t get me into no trouble?” asked Thatcher. 


192 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“No,” said the superintendent. “We’ll see to 
that.” 

“Because,” went on the man as he rose to go, 
“I’ve got my reputation to think of.” 

“We know all about that. And look here, 
Thatcher, keep your mouth shut,” said the superin¬ 
tendent. 

“How about the boats on the opposite shore?” 
asked the Chief Constable when Joe Thatcher had 
departed. 

“There’s only one,” replied Colson, “belonging to 
Moss.” 

“Yes—to Moss,” said the superintendent thought¬ 
fully. “It looks ugly for him. We’ll see this Isaac 
Moss to-morrow morning.” 

“I shall have to run down to Marsh Quay early 
before we start,” remarked Colson. 

“What for?” 

“A little matter I want to look into. I wish 
this chap Thatcher had told us all this before.” 

“It doesn’t matter much,” said the superintendent. 
“It’s just as well to have cleared off Grayson first. 
It leaves us a freer hand. I wish we knew more 
about that motor.” 

And the others agreed. 

Early the following morning Colson was at Marsh 
Quay. He sought out Jim Webb, who was still in 


FRESH EVIDENCE 


i 93 

charge of the Firefly, sleeping aboard her, till he 
received instructions from her owner at Salcombe. 

“Webb,” he said, “I want you to row me over 
opposite.” 

“All right, sir.” 

“Pull to the yacht first. I want to see some¬ 
thing.” 

He made Webb pull him all round the yacht 
till he found what he wanted. 

“What do you make of this?” he asked, pointing 
to an indentation in her sides. The paint, especially 
the narrow green band, was badly rubbed, and the 
woodwork a little crushed. “Was this done before 
you came here?” 

“No, sir. Fm sure it wasn’t. I noticed it on 
Monday. Some of them reporter chaps—or some¬ 
one—must have banged into her. They’ve been 
swarming about the place.” 

“Might have been caused by the nose of a boat 
running into her, eh?” 

“That’s exactly what I think, sir.” 

“All right, we’ll go across now.” 

When they reached the farther shore he made 
for the small boat which was moored to the landing- 
stage, and examined her carefully. On her bows 
was a distinct smear of green paint. 

“Humph,” said the detective, “that seems to bear 


194 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


out Thatcher's story. That’s the boat, sure enough. 
Webb,” he went on, “wait here five minutes, will 
you? There’s something I want to do.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Colson disappeared along the pathway through 
the wood, carrying under his arm a long, thin brown- 
paper parcel he had brought. He began to unroll 
it as he went along. 

In ten minutes or so he returned, the parcel under 
his arm, wrapped up once more. His brows knit 
and he was not looking best pleased. He hardly 
spoke to Jim Webb, and when he landed at once 
rode off on his bicycle. 

“That’s a frost,” he muttered to himself; “at 
least, it looks like one. Anyhow, we’ll see presently 
what Moss has got to say. He must be the man 
who crossed over to the yacht that night. It’s 
pretty suspicious. But things don’t altogether fit— 
though they may of course.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 

Standing on the platform of Frattenbury Sta¬ 
tion, waiting for the London train, were Harold 
Grayson and Winnie Cotterill. The superintendent, 
who was in plain clothes, raised his hat. 

“Good morning, sir,” he said with a smile. “I 
hope you won’t think we are shadowing you up 
to town!” 

“Oh, good morning, Superintendent. It certainly 
looks as if I hadn’t quite escaped from your sus¬ 
picions.” 

“Yes, you have, sir, I’m glad to say.” 

“Let me introduce you to Miss Cotterill. She is 
interested in this case.” 

The superintendent raised his hat again and bowed. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Cotterill,” he said, “if we’ve 
caused you any anxiety about Mr. Grayson.” 

She blushed a little as she replied: 

“I confess it was a relief when Canon Fittleworth 
told us last night that Mr. Grayson was free.” 

An amused look lingered for a moment on the 
195 


ig 6 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

policeman’s face as he glanced from one to the 
other. 

“Fm more than ever pleased that our suspicions 
were unfounded,” he said in a dry manner. “Here 
comes your train, sir. Are you both going up to 
London?” 

“We are,” said Grayson. 

The police superintendent found an empty com¬ 
partment and showed them in. 

“Good morning,” he said. Then he turned to 
Colson, who was standing near. “Come along, Col¬ 
son. You and I won’t disturb that young couple 
—and I hope nobody else will. We’ve both been 
in it ourselves, eh?” 

There were other people in their compartment, 
so they maintained a rigid silence on the subject in 
hand. Colson was not sorry. He wanted to study 
the notes in his pocket-book and to think things out. 
Arrived in London, they took a taxi to Scotland 
Yard, and, after an interview with the authorities 
there, went on to Hatton Garden, where they found 
Tyler lounging about, also in plain clothes. 

“Moss went into his office over an hour ago,” he 
said. “You’ll find him there.” 

The superintendent nodded and, followed by Col¬ 
son, entered a block of offices and found his way 
to an upper floor. A door with ground glass panels 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


197 


bore the inscription “Mr. Isaac Moss.” The super¬ 
intendent opened it without knocking, and they 
found themselves in a little outer office. A girl, 
seated at a typewriter, rose hastily. 

“Is Mr. Moss in?” 

“He’s particularly engaged, sir. He can’t see 
anyone.” 

“Oh—indeed! But I must see him.” 

“I’m afraid you can’t,” said the girl. “He told 
me not to let anyone in—that I didn’t know.” 

The superintendent smiled at the girl’s ingenuous¬ 
ness. 

“Well,” he said, “I’m afraid I must make you 
disobey orders. I’m a police superintendent.” 

The girl paled a little, and went towards an inner 
door marked “Private.” 

“I’ll tell him,” she said. 

But the superintendent was too quick for her. 
He was across the room in a moment. 

“You must do what I tell you,” he said. “Open 
the door. Don’t be afraid.” 

As she opened the door a voice exclaimed: 

“Who is it? I told you I couldn’t see anyone.” 

“I’m afraid we must come in, all the same, Mr. 
Moss,” said the superintendent, entering the room 
and followed by Colson. 

A little dark man of evident Jewish persuasion, 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


198 

with a thin, black moustache, half rose from the 
chair in which he was seated. His face was deadly 
pale, his mouth was half open and his lips quivering. 

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice shaking. 
“I don’t know you.” 

“It’s all right, Mr. Moss,” broke in the super¬ 
intendent closing the door, turning the lock and 
putting the key in his pocket. “I almost think you 
might have expected me to call. I’m Superintendent 
Norton, of the Frattenbury police”—he laid his card 
on the table—“and this is Detective-Sergeant 
Colson.” 

Then occurred a pitiable exhibition. Mr. Isaac 
Moss sank back in his chair, a cold sweat breaking 
out on his forehead, wringing his hands in a parox¬ 
ysm of fright. 

“I never murdered Mr. Templeton,” he said. “I 
don’t know anything about it. I wasn’t there. I 
tell you it’s no use you arresting me—I’m innocent. 
I never touched him. I knew you’d come. Oh,” 
he moaned, “I knew you’d come, but I never mur¬ 
dered him, I tell you.” 

“Come, come, Mr. Moss,” said the superintendent 
in a soothing tone, “I haven’t made any charge 
against you yet. I warn you that the way you’re 
going on will do you no good. Pull yourself to¬ 
gether. I want to ask you some questions. Why, 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


199 

we detained a man yesterday who had every cause 
to be alarmed, with the facts there were against 
him, and he took it coolly enough.” 

“He’s the man!” shrieked Moss. “He must be 
the man. You haven’t let him go, have you? Why 
do you come to me? He’s the man, I tell you.” 

Colson regarded the little writhing wretch with 
contempt mingled with pity. In his mind he was 
saying: “He hasn’t got spunk enough to stab a 
fellow—even in his back.” 

The superintendent looked round the room. 

“You don’t happen to have any whisky—or 
brandy handy, do you?” 

Isaac Moss sprang to his feet. 

“Yes, I have,” he cried. “You shall have a 
drink—of course you shall have a drink. You see 
it was the other man, don’t you? Here-” 

He had dashed to a cupboard and produced a 
bottle of whisky, a siphon and glasses. One of the 
latter fell to the floor with a crash. The super¬ 
intendent poured out a stiff portion of the spirit, 
filled the glass up with soda-water and handed it 
to the terrified man. 

“Drink it,” he said. “Sit down now, and pull 
yourself together.” 

Moss gulped down the contents of the tumbler 
and sat looking at them. A slight colour came 



200 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


into his cheeks, but he was still trembling. The 
superintendent waited. 

“What do you want?” asked Moss presently, in 
a slightly calmer tone of voice. 

“Well, in the first place, bear in mind that I 
haven’t arrested you. I want to ask you some 
questions.” 

As a matter of fact he had come determined to 
take Moss into custody. But he was accustomed 
to dealing with criminals, and had already half made 
up his mind that he need only detain him. And 
Moss had had fright enough as it was. 

“Go on,” said the Jew faintly. 

“Well, then, will you tell us why you left your 
house near Marsh Quay so early and so suddenly 
on Sunday morning?” 

“I didn’t leave it suddenly,” said Moss. “I had 
business in London—important business. I often 
come up on Sunday morning by that train.” 

“It won’t do, Mr. Moss,” said the superintendent, 
shaking his head. “We know you gave a sudden 
and unexpected order for your car early that morn¬ 
ing. We know you are not in the habit of coming 
up to town on Sunday at all. For your own sake 
you’d better tell us the truth and hide nothing.” 

The little man wiped the sweat off his brow. 

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll tell you the truth. I came 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


201 


away because I was frightened. So help me God, 
that’s true.” 

“Frightened of what?” 

“Lest I should be accused of being mixed up 
in Mr. Templeton’s murder.” 

“How did you hear of his murder?” 

“My man told me—early Sunday morning.” 

“It won’t do, Mr. Moss,” repeated the superin¬ 
tendent. “You had left the house before it was 
known that the murder had taken place. Come— 
if you can’t tell me the truth, I shall have to take 
you away.” 

Isaac Moss wrung his hands. 

“No—no!” he cried, “don’t do that. My man 
didn’t tell me. That was a lie. But I knew—I tell 
you I knew.” 

The superintendent looked at his notebook for 
a moment. Then he spoke. 

“It would help us—and you, too—if you would 
tell us what you were doing on board Mr. Temple¬ 
ton’s yacht at one o’clock on Sunday morning.” 

Moss started to his feet again 

“I wasn’t there,” he cried. “You’re mistaken. 
I wasn’t there.” 

“You were there,” said the superintendent sternly. 
I’ll give you one more chance of speaking the truth, 
and if you don’t I’ll charge you with the murder 


202 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


of Reginald Templeton and take you into custody.” 

The wretched man sank into his chair again. 
Then he said, almost in a whisper: 

“Very well, then—I was there.” 

“That’s better,” said the superintendent. “We’ll 
go into that further in a moment. Now then,” 
and he made a shot in the dark, “what have you 
done with the diamonds you took from Mr. Temple¬ 
ton?” 

A little to the surprise of the two policemen the 
Jew, who was growing calmer under the influence 
of the stimulant, rose from his seat, unlocked a safe, 
took from it a small leather bag, very much like the 
one that had been found on the dead man, and 
poured its contents on the table. 

“There they are,” he said, “all but one—and 
that was the cause of the trouble.” 

“You stole these diamonds?” 

“Stole them!” cried Moss. “I steal! Of course 
I never stole them. Ask anybody about me, and 
they’ll tell you I’m a regular dealer in the stones. 
Besides—I gave Templeton the receipt for them. 
Didn’t you find it? He put it in his pocket-book. 
I saw him do it.” 

The superintendent looked at Colson, who elevated 
his eyebrows, but said nothing. Both men were a 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


203 

little out of their reckoning. Then the superin¬ 
tendent said to Moss: 

“See here, Mr. Moss. We police have a duty to 
do, but no innocent person need be afraid of us. 
We only want to secure the guilty. And we’re al¬ 
ways ready to help the innocent when we can. We 
know you were on Mr. Templeton’s yacht—we know 
he had been with you on Saturday afternoon— 
and we know you left in the devil of a hurry and 
took these diamonds with you. You will serve 
your purpose, and ours, best by telling us all you 
know.” 

Isaac Moss took out his cigarette case. 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” 

“By all means.” 

He poured himself out some more whisky, drank 
it and said: 

“Where do you want me to begin?” 

“At the point when you had an interview with 
Templeton on Saturday afternoon. Tell us why he 
came to you.” 

“It was about these diamonds. I am agent for 
a firm in South Africa, Ehbrenstein & Co.—a well- 
known firm. They wrote telling me they had a 
consignment of uncut stones which they wished me 
to take to Amsterdam—to be cut, in the usual way 
of business. We are always very careful, of course, 


204 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


in these consignments, and if there is anyone well 
known to the firms or dealers coming over, it is a 
common thing to ask him to bring them. My letter 
of advice told me that Mr. Templeton—whom I 
knew slightly—would bring them over, and that I 
was to give him the receipt on delivery. It would, 
of course, be a matter of commission for him. The 
letter also said that he would communicate with me 
when he reached England. He didn’t at first. I 
knew the boat on which he was sailing had arrived 
in Plymouth, and grew anxious, especially as I 
knew that Templeton was an erratic and peculiar 
man, with little regard for business methods. Then 
I heard from him—from Poole—saying he was 
yachting on the South Coast, probably finishing up 
at a little place called Marsh Quay, when he would 
run up to town and deliver the stones. He also 
told me to write to him at the G.P.O., Ryde, if I 
had anything to say. I was getting still more anx¬ 
ious, and wrote at once, suggesting that as, by a 
coincidence, I had a week-end place at Marsh Quay, 
he should bring me the stones there. I described 
exactly where my house stood. He replied saying 
he would be with me on Saturday afternoon.” 

“Yes, we know that,” said the superintendent. 

“I was sitting on my lawn when he came. We 
talked a bit there, and then went into the house— 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


205 


into my study, and had a whisky and soda each. 
It was there that he produced these stones—in a 
little bag like this one—and I turned them out on 
the table and counted them. There were thirty- 
two—the correct number. I put them back in the 
bag and gave him the receipt. Just before he went 
he said, ‘I’d like to keep that little bag. I’ve car¬ 
ried it a good many hundred miles.’ I said, ‘Cer¬ 
tainly.’ I unlocked a drawer in my writing-desk, 
emptied the stones into a little tin box, locked it up 
and gave him the bag. Then I walked down to my 
landing-stage and watched him row back to his 
yacht. That was the last I saw of him—alive.” 

He drank a sip or two out of his glass; he was 
beginning to get agitated again. 

“Take your time,” said the superintendent. “Tell 
us everything, mind.” 

“Yes, I will. When my wife and I went to bed 
that night it was late—after twelve. I took the 
little box containing the stones with me—I have a 
small safe in our bedroom. Before I put them 
away the thought struck me that I would count 
them. To my horror, there were only thirty-one— 
one of the largest was missing. You must remember 
that these stones are worth a considerable sum, 
and I only hold them as agent—but I am responsible 
for them. My wife and I talked it over, and came 


206 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

to the conclusion that I must have left one stone 
in the bag when I emptied them out the second time. 
I was in a dilemma. For all I knew, Templeton 
might be off with the tide very early the next morn¬ 
ing—he hadn’t told me his movements. Then I 
looked out of the window—you can see across the 
estuary over the trees. I could make out a light. 
Now, I know the position of the lights there, and 
I knew at once it couldn’t be the inn or the house in 
which—what’s his name?—the old retired cigar mer¬ 
chant lives. Yes?” 

Colson had sprung to an upright position on his 
chair. 

44 What’s that you say?” he asked. “A cigar 
merchant? Who?” 

“Why—he lived in the house opposite the 
‘Mariner’s Arms’—ah—Proctor’s his name. Didn’t 
you know?” 

“Was he in the cigar trade?” 

“Yes—till about two years ago. I knew him 
slightly up here; in fact, it was I who told him 
about that house of his being for sale.” 

Colson gave a low whistle and exchanged glances 
with the superintendent. 

“Sorry I interrupted. Go on, Mr. Moss.” 

“Well, from the position of the light, I guessed 
it must be on Templeton’s yacht, and that he had 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


207 


not yet turned in. I didn’t know, as I told you, 
whether he might not be off—even soon, for the 
tide would be on the turn between one and two. 
And I hadn’t the slightest idea how to get hold of 
him if he left, so I said to my wife, ‘I’ll get that 
stone now. Templeton’s evidently on his yacht.’ 
‘How?’ she asked. ‘Why,’ I replied, ‘it’s quite 
simple; it’s only a question of pulling over in the 
boat.’ At first she was rather inclined to dissuade 
me, but she saw how anxious I was to get the stone 
back, so at last she said, ‘Well, hurry up, then, 
Isaac, and get it over. I want to go to sleep—and 
don’t stop gossiping with Mr. Templeton.’ ” 

“And you went?” put in the superintendent. 

Moss nodded, took a drink and went on. 

“I did. It wasn’t so easy as I thought. The 
tide was running in hard, and I’m not much of a 
hand with a boat. I had to pull with all my might, 
and when I got to the calmer water, where the 
yacht lay, I still pulled so hard that I ran into her 
with a bit of a bump. I was rather surprised that 
no one took any notice; it must have shaken her.” 

“Well, I fastened my boat to the yacht and got 
aboard. There wasn’t a sound. The cabin door was 
open, and I went in. The hanging lamp was burn¬ 
ing. I looked round, and there I saw Templeton 
lying on the floor—face downwards. At first I 


208 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


thought he was asleep, or drunk. Then I stooped 
down. Ah, my God—it’s haunted me ever since!” 

He leaned forward for a moment and covered his 
face with his hands. Then he went on. 

“There was a pool of blood on the floor; he was 
dead.” 

“Yes—and then?” asked the superintendent. 

“I—I—thought I should have fainted. I sat 
down on one of the bunks for a minute. Then the 
horror of the thing took hold of me. If I were dis¬ 
covered—what would be the position? It flashed 
across me instantly—that dark night—no one else 
about—I saw it all. They would think I did it. 

“I got out of that cabin in a panic and into my 
boat. I don’t know how I managed to get across— 
it seemed hours—and I pulled till my arms ached 
with pain. As soon as I reached my house I ran 
upstairs and told my wife what had happened. She 
was as frightened as myself—she saw the danger. 
We neither of us got a wink of sleep that night. 
We kept talking it over, and at last we both agreed 
that the wisest thing to do would be to get away 
very early in the morning—we hoped before the 
discovery was made.” 

“The worst thing you could have done,” inter¬ 
posed Colson. “It naturally drew suspicion upon 
you at once. We knew Templeton had been with 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


209 


you in the afternoon, and one of the first things 
we did was to try to get hold of you—and found 
you’d bolted.” 

“I know—I know,” said Moss. “I’ve been in 
terror ever since. I’ve sat in this office, trying to 
do business, and expecting every moment to see 
the police come in—it’s been agony.” 

“What you ought to have done,” said the super¬ 
intendent, “was to give the alarm—at Marsh Quay 
—directly you discovered the body.” 

“Yes—yes—but even suppose I had—wouldn’t 
you have suspected me? I don’t know. I don’t 
know.” 

The superintendent did not answer. He was 
thinking what he would have done, if he had been 
a nervous, cowardly man in a like predicament. 
And he had to agree, mentally, that the Jew had 
acted according to his natural temperament. 

“That’s the whole truth, so help me God!” said 
Moss earnestly, “and I’m glad I’ve told you now; 
it’s a blessed relief. I couldn’t have gone on much 
longer. What are you going to do with me?” he 
asked, throwing out his hands in appealing gesture. 

The superintendent did not reply for a moment. 
He was considering. Then Colson whispered some¬ 
thing to him, and he nodded. 


210 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Sergeant Colson wants to ask you a question— 
before we decide anything.” 

“Yes?” said the Jew. 

“I may as well tell you,” said Colson, “that you 
have been under strict observation for the last few 
days. But there’s one thing I want to know. When 
you and your wife came up to London on Sunday 
morning, apparently you did not go to your house 
in Brondesbury. We’ve ascertained that you only 
went there on Monday. Where were you on Sun¬ 
day night? If you can tell us that, and bring wit¬ 
nesses to prove the truth of it, it will materially 
help you.” 

He was, of course, thinking of the incident of the 
walking-stick. Already he was more than half sat¬ 
isfied with the Jew’s story—it fitted in with his own 
deductions. But he wanted to make quite sure. 
For this would help him still more. 

“No—we didn’t go home,” said Moss, “we were 
not expected—our two maids at Brondesbury had 
the week-end off. We went to an hotel and stayed 
the Sunday night there.” 

“What hotel?” 

“The ‘Chester.’ ” 

“Will you come with us to the ‘Chester’ now?” 
asked the superintendent. “We should like to cor¬ 
roborate this statement.” 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


2 11 


“Certainly—I will come.” 

“Go down and get a taxi,” said the superintendent 
to Colson, “and ask Tyler to come with us.” 

The Jew was putting on his overcoat as Colson 
left the room; he turned a nervous, inquiring glance 
on the superintendent. 

“Tyler is one of our men,” said the latter dryly. 
“He’s been shadowing you since Monday. I hope,” 
he added, in a more kindly tone, “to take him back 
with us to Frattenbury.” 

Arrived at the “Chester,” the superintendent pro¬ 
duced his card and asked to see the manager. A 
few minutes later they were closeted with him in his 
private office. 

“I want you to tell us,” said the superintendent, 
“whether this gentleman,” and he indicated Moss, 
“stayed here on Sunday night last.” 

“The name?” 

“Moss—Isaac Moss.” 

“Certainly. Wait here a moment, and I’ll make 
inquiries.” 

“I should like to have everything corroborated.” 

“All right.” 

The manager returned after a brief interval, 
bringing with him the booking clerk, the hall porter 
and a chambermaid. The booking clerk at once 
recognised Moss, produced his registration signa- 


212 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


ture, and the entry in the book. The chambermaid 
stated that he and his wife had occupied room 
number 87. 

“Can any of you swear—I warn you that it may 
have to come to that—that Mr. Moss was in the 
hotel all Sunday night ?” 

“Up to twelve o’clock would be enough/’ broke 
in Colson. 

“I can do that/’ said the hall porter; “at least 
I know he was here from nine p.m. till midnight. 
He sat in the lounge most of the time. I saw him 
writing a letter, which he gave me to post just 
before he went to bed—a minute or two after 
twelve. I saw him get into the lift, and said good 
night to him. I’m quite prepared to swear to this.” 

“Very well,” said the superintendent, “that’s all 
I want to know. Can we be alone—my friends and 
I—for a minute or two?” he asked the manager. 

“Certainly. Make use of this room. Nothing 
wrong, I hope, superintendent?” 

“No—it’s all right.” 

When the manager and the others had gone, the 
superintendent said: 

“Well, Mr. Moss, I’ve decided not to take you 
into custody, though I may as well tell you now 
that I quite intended to do so. You’ve been ex¬ 
ceedingly imprudent, and you’ve had a narrow es- 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 


213 


cape. As to these diamonds”—he had put them 
back in the bag and pocketed them—“can you sat¬ 
isfy me that you have a right to them?” 

“I have all the correspondence relating to them 
in my office—and I can bring another proof. Ehbren- 
stein & Co. sent full particulars of the transaction 
to another of their London agents—this is frequently 
done, as a covering precaution.” 

“Very good, we will return to your office and see 
this agent. If it is as you say, I am prepared to 
leave the stones with you.” 

“How about—how about the other stone—you 
found it on Mr. Templeton, I hope?” 

The man’s Jewish instincts were predominating 
now that the crisis was over. 

“You’ll get that—in good time. Now, Mr. Moss, 
I don’t want to have any further trouble with you. 
If all is as you say, and I allow you your freedom, 
you must be prepared to tell your story to the jury 
at the remanded inquest. You understand?” 

“Do you think,” hesitated Moss, a little of his 
terror returning, “that they’d be likely to return 
a verdict of—of—murder against me?” 

“It doesn’t matter in the least what they do,” 
said the policeman with fine sarcasm in his opinion 
of the brain powers of the “twelve good men and 
true.” “It’s only a coroner’s jury. We might have, 


214 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


in that case, for form’s sake, to bring you before 
the magistrates’ court. But you’d never get com¬ 
mitted for trial. We'll see to that.” 

The end of it was that the superintendent ex¬ 
pressed himself satisfied, released Isaac Moss, and 
returned to Frattenbury with Colson. In the course 
of the journey the detective remarked: 

“I never expected we should find Moss to be our 
man. When I showed his housekeeper and her hus¬ 
band that stick this morning, pretending I had found 
it in their master’s boat, and they both denied that 
they had ever seen it before, I felt pretty certain. 
Besides, I thought beforehand that the stick was 
too long to be used by a little man like Moss. Well, 
that settles his book,” and he rubbed his hands. 
“We’ve eliminated two out of the three. Now we’ll 
go for the last one. A cigar merchant, eh, sir? 
That’s a bit significant.” 

The superintendent nodded. 

“What are you going to do, Colson?” 

“Leave that to me for a bit, sir. I’ve got a card 
up my sleeve that ought to take the trick. And 
I’ll play it—before the adjourned inquest!” 

Smoking his pipe that evening, in his snug little 
home, he related the events of the day to his wife. 

“And now for Mr. Joseph Proctor, retired cigar 
merchant!” he exclaimed gleefully. 


ISAAC MOSS EXPLAINS 215 

She took his hand as she sat beside him. 

“Be careful dear!” she said. 

“Why?” 

“You’ve just told me that Mr. Moss is a little 
man, and would scarcely have carried a long walk¬ 
ing-stick.” 

“Well?” 

“Isn’t Mr. Proctor a little man, too?” 

“Confound it!” he exclaimed. 

Then his face lightened. “It’s all right,” he said. 
“If he bought the stick in Switzerland he’d have 
to take what they’d got. And he wouldn’t use it 
in the ordinary way there—in climbing with it. 
Besides-” 

“Besides what?” 

“There’s more ways than one of carrying a walk¬ 
ing-stick, my dear. I’ve observed that. Little men 
often simply carry them—I mean, they don’t hold 
them by the handle and stick the point in the ground 
when they walk.” 

She squeezed his hand fondly. 

“You are a silly old dear,” she said with a laugh. 
“That reasoning might have applied to Mr. Moss, 
you know.” 

“One for you,” he replied. “Never mind, old 
girl, Moss is out of the game now.” 



CHAPTER XIV 


REGINALD TEMPLETON’S LETTER 

Anthony Crosby looked up with a smile as 
Winnie Cotterill was ushered into his private office. 

“Good morning, Miss Cotterill. Very glad to see 
you,” he said, getting up from his chair and shaking 
hands with the girl. “You got my note, then?” 

“You said you wanted to see me, Mr. Crosby.” 

“I did. Sit down, won’t you? Now I dare say 
you’ve been wondering why I’ve enticed you into 
my office, eh?” 

“Is it anything about Mr. Templeton’s murder?” 
asked Winnie as she sat down. 

“Well—er—in a way it is.” 

“Have the police found out yet who did it?” asked 
the girl eagerly. 

The lawyer took up some typewritten sheets lying 
on his table and glanced at them. 

“The superintendent at Frattenbury has been 
good enough to send me a private report,” he re¬ 
plied. “I don’t think I’m betraying their confi¬ 
dence when I tell you that so far they haven’t laid 
216 


REGINALD TEMPLETON’S LETTER 217 

their hands on the villain. There was another man 
they suspected—besides Mr. Grayson—but he seems 
to have cleared himself.” 

Winnie had taken off her gloves. The observant 
lawyer glanced at her left hand. 

“You’re very glad Mr. Grayson is no longer sus¬ 
pected?” he asked dryly. 

The girl blushed a little, smiled and nodded. 

“Yes,” she said. “You see—since I saw you 
last-” 

“You’ve added to your jewellery, eh, Miss Cot- 
terill?” 

“Mr. Grayson asked me to marry him, and I 
said-” 

“ ‘Yes.’ I’m not surprised. Let me offer you my 
congratulations. When are you going to be mar¬ 
ried?” 

“Oh, it’ll be ever so long a time. You see, 
Harold’s got to make his way as an artist. He’s 
the youngest son. He’s getting on, of course. But 
we shall have to wait a bit.” 

“And you—do you manage to earn your own 
living?” 

“Oh, yes—just, you know. I haven’t been able 
to save anything. But I’m getting along nicely.” 

“I see. Well, Miss Cotterill, we’ll dismiss this 
naturally pleasant subject for a time, if you don’t 




2 l8 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


mind. I’ll tell you why I asked you to call. I 
suppose you know that my late client was much 
interested in you?” 

“Uncle?—Mr. Templeton? He was most awfully 
good to me.” 

“I wonder if you know why?” said the lawyer. 

“Sometimes I’ve often tried to guess—I’ve won¬ 
dered if he was fond of my mother, you know?” 

Crosby nodded. “Yes—he was, Miss Cotterill. 
He was in love with her before she married.” 

A deep blush spread over the girl’s face. 

“You haven’t sent for me to tell me he—he was 
my fa-” 

“No, no, no, my dear young lady. I assure you. 
Besides, you probably remember your father?” 

And he looked at her keenly. 

“Yes—very faintly. You see, I was very young 
when he died—I couldn’t have been more than four 
years old. I can just remember him—not what he 
was like, you know. That’s all. I asked because— 
because my mother hardly ever mentioned him—she 
didn’t seem to care to talk about him—and I won¬ 
dered ” 

“Yes, yes,” interposed the *awyer sympathetically. 
“I understand. Well, you can dismiss any such 
thought from your mind.” 

“Can you tell me anything about my father?” 




REGINALD TEMPLETON’S LETTER 219 

He looked at her a moment, and then said: 

“No, I can’t tell you anything about him. But 
I can tell you something that ought to please you,” 
he went on with a smile. “Mr. Templeton made 
his will, and left it with me before he went to South 
Africa. Here it is,” and he held up a paper. “Can 
you guess the contents?” 

“How can I, Mr. Crosby?” 

“Well, he’s left everything of which he died pos¬ 
sessed to you!” 

“To me!” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Oh, 
no—there must be some mistake.” 

He laughed. 

“It’s very rude of you to doubt a lawyer’s word, 
my dear young lady. And you ought not to be 
surprised. His only relations, apparently, were the 
Fittleworths, and they’re quite well off. Now, don’t 
jump to conclusions. You’re not going to be an 
heiress by any means, so don’t you think it. Mr. 
Templeton wasn’t at all rich, and he spent most 
of his money in travelling and fitting out expedi¬ 
tions. I’ve been looking over his affairs, and you’ll 
only get two thousand pounds at the outside.” 

“Two thousand pounds!” cried Winnie. “I never 
expected to have so much money in all my life. Do 
you really mean it?” 

“I wish everyone was as modest in their ideas of 


220 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


money as you are. No I don’t, though—I should 
have to lower my fees! Yes, it’s about two thou¬ 
sand, as far as I can make out. Now, what are you 
going to do with it?” 

He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. 
Visions of gowns, hats, jewellery, furniture, and 
finally a trousseau flitted through the girl’s mind. 
And the lawyer, who had a knowledge of human 
nature—intensified by being a married man— 
shrewdly guessed several of the visions. 

“I—don’t—know,” said Winnie slowly. “There 
are ever so many things, and-” 

“Now look here, Miss Cotterill,” broke in Crosby, 
“may I presume to give you a bit of advice? If 
you invest the money carefully, it ought to bring 
you in a hundred a year.” 

He knew what the answer would be. And it was. 

“Oh, Mr. Crosby, can’t I have some of it to spend 
now?” 

“You can have the whole lot if you like—when 
we’ve taken out probate. It’s yours absolutely.” 

“I shouldn’t want to spend it all . I shouldn’t 
know how to.” 

“Oh, I expect you would. Anyhow—I don’t want 
to force myself on you—but will you let me arrange 
matters? Suppose you have a hundred pounds and 
let me invest the remainder for you, eh?” 



REGINALD TEMPLETON’S LETTER 221 


Her eyes sparkled. 

“That would be just ripping!” she said. “Thank 
you ever so much.” 

“Very well. I’ll see about taking out probate, 
and let you know when I shall want you again.” 

He had adopted his professional manner and 
looked at his watch markedly. 

“There isn’t anything else just now. Good-bye, 
Miss Cotterill; and hearty congratulations—in a 
double sense.” 

When Winnie Cotterill had departed, the lawyer 
took up another paper that was lying on his desk, and 
read it carefully. The sealed packet he had men¬ 
tioned to Canon Fittleworth had contained it. It 
was in the form of a letter from Reginald Templeton. 

My Dear Crosby, 

We are all of us in the lap of the gods, and 
sometimes they drop us before we think they will. 
Anyhow, when a man starts, as I am starting, for 
some considerable time abroad, one never knows 
what may happen. So this is for your private 
eye in case I cut the traces or they are cut for 
me—and don’t see you again. 

You have my will, in which I leave the little 
I’ve got to Winnie Cotterill—and I expect you 
know the reason. Bui there’s something else I 


222 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

want to tell you about the girl, which l think you 
ought to know in case the unforeseen may happen 
—as it does sometimes. Her name isn't really 
Cotterill at all — it's Forbes. Don't start, my 
friend, there's nothing wrong with her parentage . 
The facts are these. Her mother, Mabel Cot¬ 
terill, didn't marry me as I hoped she would. She 
chose a man named Percy Forbes, a young lawyer. 
He turned out a wrong 'un. When Winifred was 
about four years old, he was tried on a serious 
charge of embezzlement, and sentenced to seven 
years' penal servitude. He hadn't got a leg to 
stand upon, it was a clear case. He and his wife 
were living at the time — well, it doesn't matter 
where. But Mrs. Forbes naturally left the neigh¬ 
bourhood; in fact I advised her to do so. The 
question arose about Winifred. The mother 
didn't want the child to hear of the family dis¬ 
grace, so she went to a neighbourhood where no¬ 
body knew her, and took her maiden name of 
Cotterill. We used to talk over matters some¬ 
times—as to what would happen when Forbes 
came out of prison—and she hated the thought 
of the child ever knowing that her father had been 
a convict. But Forbes didn't come out of prison — 
he died at Princetown in the third year of his 
sentence. So Winifred was brought up to believe 


REGINALD TEMPLETON’S LETTER 223 

that he died when she was jour years old—and 
that’s all she knows. And her mother stuck to 
the name of Cotterill. 

What do I want you to do? Probably nothing, 
my friend. I trust you to keep up the fiction. A 
name doesn’t matter, and the girl will, I hope, 
marry some good fellow, and so get another name 
that she’s a right to. You will agree that it is best 
not to let her have the burden of her father’s dis¬ 
grace. 

But —and this is the real object of this letter — 
if ever there’s a question of her benefiting by the 
knowledge (/ don’t suppose there ever will be), I 
wanted you to know the facts. It seemed to me 
to be only fair to her. And, in that case, I ask 
you to use your own discretion —just as I should 
have done. You’re a wiser man than I am but 
even I could solve the problem as to whether it 
would be better for the girl to know of her father’s 
crime for the sake of any material advantage that 
might occur, or whether a mind based on the con¬ 
tentment of ignorance is not really worth more 
than worldly dross. 

I know I’m a queer chap, and it’s because I’m 
queer that I haven’t mentioned places. You’re 
shrewd enough to find out the facts for yourself if 
occasion arises. And as the finding out of the 


224 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


facts would take you a little time, I’ve tied you up, 
so that you can have plenty of leisure for decision. 

“That’s all. If the aforementioned gods drop 
me, you’ll see that Winifred gets my little lot of 
possessions. And to recompense you for this — 
and for making further investigations if you have 
to do so—please take the enclosed bank-note for 
a hundred pounds, with every good wish from 
Your sincere friend, 

Reginald Templeton. 

The lawyer carefully replaced this document in its 
envelope and locked it up. 

“A queer letter,” he said to himself; “but then, 
Templeton was not an ordinary sort of man. Of 
course, I can easily find out about this fellow 
Forbes, if I want to, but it seems to me, at present, 
that there’s nothing to do—-yes, it wouldn’t be fair 
to tell the girl. I can quite understand the policy of 
bringing her up in ignorance of her father’s crime. 

“Well, anyway,” he went on, “this matter has 
nothing to do with the murder.” 

He took up the superintendent’s letter and read 
it again. 

“So Moss is out of the running,” he soliloquised, 
“and the diamonds are accounted for. So it could 
hardly be robbery—unless,” and he went on thought- 


REGINALD TEMPLETON’S LETTER 225 

fully, “unless, of course, someone else knew he had 
those diamonds on him—and did not know he had 
handed them over to Moss. That looks feasible. 
It’s a rational motive for the crime. I wonder who 
this other suspect is that the police say they have 
an eye on? 

“There’s another queer thing about this murder,” 
he reflected. “Hardly any papers were found in 
the cabin, and none on Templeton’s body. Yet 
there were about thirty pounds in notes in the open 
locker. If the murderer was after the diamonds, 
and didn’t find them, why did he take any papers? 
For Templeton must have had a pocket-book or 
something on him. It’s a rum case. I wonder if 
the police will ever solve it. Well, perhaps there 
will be some fresh light at the inquest. Anyhow, 
I can’t give any more time to it just now.” 

It wasn’t long before Winnie Cotterill saw Gray¬ 
son. He called at the flat and had tea. Maude 
Wingrave came in just after he had arrived. 

Winnie told them the news. 

“Poor Uncle!” she said; “I’d rather not have 
had the money when it means his death, of course. 
But I just can’t help being excited. Look here, 
you children! You’ve both got to dine with me 
to-night—at the ‘Petit Cygne.’ I’ll stand treat.” 

“Squanderer!” derided Maude. “Beware, Mr. 


226 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


Grayson! She’ll throw your money about like ducks 
and drakes. I don’t think I’ll come, Winnie.” 

“Why not, old thing?” 

“You two irresponsible young persons having en¬ 
tered upon the broad downward path that leadeth 
into the narrow straights of matrimony with insuf¬ 
ficient income will do all the talking to one another 
—and it will be appalling to listen unto. That’s 
why.” 

“I’ll promise to address quite a lot of remarks to 
you,” said Grayson. 

“Yes, I know—‘Don’t you think Winnie looks 
charming to-night?’ and all that sort of unbear¬ 
able-” 

“Shut up, Maude—don’t be rude. Please excuse 
her, Harold. I’m trying to teach her manners—she 
spent the extra tuppence on frivolity. You’ll both 
come, and there’s an end of it.” 

“The end of it will be that I shall leave you two 
children at the close of the meal, see?” 

“We don’t mind, do we, Harold?” 

“Not a bit,” replied Grayson, as if he meant it. 

“You’re not polite, Mr. Grayson,” said Maude. 
“If you don’t treat me with due respect, I shall 
stay till the bitter end.” 

But, being a good-hearted girl, of course she 
didn’t. 



CHAPTER XV 


DETECTIVE-SERGEANT COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 

The newspaper paragraphs about the murder at 
Marsh Quay dwindled in length. There were several 
scathing leading articles dealing with the inefficiency 
of the local police, and expounding the systems that 
ought to be put into force. One leader-writer pro¬ 
duced an article conclusively proving that the Gov¬ 
ernment was to blame. Writers of that peculiar 
terse and asterisked matter—the editor, it is pre¬ 
sumed, puts in the asterisks in exchange for the 
copy he deletes—which adorns the “magazine” page 
of certain of our morning papers reaped a small 
crop of guineas. Thus one of them described the 
manufacture of cigar bands another epitomised half 
a dozen yacht tragedies, and a third gave a graphic 
sketch of how he himself had sailed in the Marsh 
Quay estuary. 

The Sunday papers, of course, had their contri¬ 
butions. “An Expert in Crime” brilliantly recon¬ 
structed the whole murder, hinted at clues which 
the police ought to have found, and, without men- 

227 


228 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


tioning any names, left the impression on the mind 
of the reader that the two sailor-men, to wit, Jim 
Webb and Tom Gale, had acted in collusion, with the 
assistance of Mrs. Yates, who had countenanced a 
mysterious rendezvous at the “Mariner’s Arms.” 

The police were inundated with letters—sug¬ 
gestive and critical. People called at the police sta¬ 
tion to make statements, which were patiently re¬ 
ceived and laid on one side. But, as usual, the 
police quietly kept their own counsel and were un¬ 
impressed. 

Colson, who was now in the best of spirits, called 
on Canon Fittleworth. 

“I’m sorry,” said the Canon, “but my list isn’t 
quite complete yet. I shall have to make a few 
more efforts of memory, as Major Renshaw puts it. 
I’m not satisfied.” 

“What list, sir?” 

“Why, the names of all the people I can remember 
who smoked any of my cigars.” 

“Oh, that!” exclaimed the detective. “Yes, I 
know. But it wasn’t about that list that I called 
—later on will do very well. I came to ask you for 
the name and address of your friend in Cuba who 
sent you the cigars.” 

“My Spanish friend. Certainly. I’ll write it down 


COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 


229 

for you. What do you want it for?” he asked, as 
he passed it over to Colson. 

“Oh—it may be useful,” said the detective in a 
non-committal manner. “One never knows.” 

“Any further progress?” 

The Canon, of course, was interested. 

“You mustn’t ask me, please, sir. We’re doing 
all we can.” 

Later on that day the police sent a cablegram to 
Cuba, asking for certain information. Also, Colson 
ran up to London, and was closeted for some time 
with the managing director of a reputable firm of 
wholesale cigar importers, from whom he gathered 
certain details which he carefully entered in his note¬ 
book. 

“They’re first-rate cigars, aren’t they?” asked the 
managing director at the close of the interview. “Of 
course, there are very few of them manufactured. 
We keep them to ourselves.” 

“I don’t know anything about them in that way,” 
replied the detective dryly. “I haven’t smoked one.” 

“Haven’t you? Well, you shall then. I’ve got 
some of them here. Take half a dozen. Anything 
else I can do for you, let me know. So you know 
Proctor, eh? Nice little chap. Asked me to run 
down and see him some day.” 

“I’d rather you said nothing about my visit, if 


230 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


you do, sir. You will understand I’ve been asking 
you for this information in confidence.” 

“Quite. I won’t say a word. Not that I’m likely 
to see him yet awhile.” 

The detective agreed that the brand was an ex¬ 
cellent one as he smoked one of the cigars on his 
return journey. He also read, in the evening paper, 
one of the aforenamed articles on the lethargy of 
the provincial police—and enjoyed it immensely. 
But, then, he was in the mood for enjoying anything 
just then. 

“By the way, Colson,” said the superintendent to 
him when they were in consultation that evening, 
“have you made any more progress with that blot¬ 
ting-paper puzzle, ‘Ezra’s ices’?” 

“Not much, sir. t I think I’ve found out two or 
three more words. But I don’t attach importance 
to it. We’ve something more definite than that to 
go upon.” 

“True—but I’d bear it in mind all the same. We 
mustn’t neglect any detail.” 

“All right, sir. I’m feeling a little bit off colour,” 
he went on, with a grin. “I think a little fresh air 
will do me good. So I propose taking a day’s holi¬ 
day to-morrow and spending it at Marsh Quay. 
I may even stay the night, sir.” 

“Very well, Colson,” replied the superintendent, 


COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 


231 


grinning at him in return. “I hope it will set you 
up. Don’t get into mischief.” 

“I may commit a burglary, sir—that’s all. It’s a 
fascinating game when you’re on a holiday. If 
possible—if I get any luck, that is—it won’t come 
off. But I’ll come back and give myself up to you 
if it does.” 

Colson seemed about to carry out his threat next 
day by taking with him a jimmy, a strong pocket- 
knife, and a bunch of skeleton keys—carefully se¬ 
lected from trophies at the police station. 

The house in which Proctor resided at Marsh 
Quay was exactly opposite the spot where the yacht 
had been anchored. The main entrance was from 
the road, just before the quay was reached. A low 
stone wall, running parallel with the estuary, bor¬ 
dered the garden on the western side, and a small 
gate led through this wall to the shore; in fact 
Proctor had come out of this gate when he had ac¬ 
costed Jim Webb and Mrs. Yates on the morning 
when the murder was discovered. 

The Firefly was no longer riding in the little 
harbour. Acting on the instructions of her owner, 
Jim Webb by this time was sailing her back to 
Salcombe. Local interest in the scene of the mur¬ 
der had subsided, and the detective had the place 
practically to himself. 


232 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

He had found out all that he could about Mr. 
Proctor’s household and habits. That was not 
very difficult. The unsuspecting landlady of the 
“Mariner’s Arms,” in the course of an apparently 
casual conversation, had told him that the boy 
Philip had left, and that his great-uncle was once 
more by himself. He also gathered that Proctor’s 
domestic establishment consisted of an elderly cook- 
housekeeper and a young maidservant, both of whom 
slept at the back of the house, while Proctor him¬ 
self occupied a bedroom over the dining-room with 
a view, south and west, of the estuary. 

He further ascertained that it was the little man’s 
usual habit, when alone, to walk into Frattenbury in 
the afternoon, where he read the papers at a club. 

It was the afternoon now, and he had seen Proctor 
start towards Frattenbury across the field path, so 
he felt free and unobserved. There were several 
things that he wanted to do. First of all he wanted 
to saturate his mind with a mental vision of the 
committal of the crime. It was not the first time, 
of course, that he had taken a careful survey, but 
he wished to reconstruct the scene, as he had imag¬ 
ined it, more closely. 

For this purpose he took up a position on the shore 
just by the little garden gate. Then he solilo¬ 
quised: 


COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 


233 


“Yes—now suppose anyone in the house, or gar¬ 
den, were on the lookout for Templeton’s return 
—Wait a bit, though. Something might have hap¬ 
pened before then. It was, probably, only the 
thought of robbery in the first place. 

“By Jove!” he exclaimed presently, “I believe 
I’ve got it—it would account for the stick in the 
dinghy and everything else. This way. 

“Let us call the murderer A. Well, A has reason 
to believe that Templeton has those diamonds, and 
he doesn’t know that he has already given them to 
Moss. He has seen Jim Webb go off to Fratten- 
bury—probably found out that he was staying the 
night there. And he has seen Templeton go, too. 
He could easily find out if he was expected back 
late or not. Tom Gale knew it, Grayson knew it, 
Jim Webb knew it—they talked it over in the inn. 
And Mrs. Yates knew it—she told me she’d re¬ 
marked about it to others. 

“Well, then, A, with this information, speculates 
that Templeton might leave the diamonds on board. 
Quite likely. It was a dark night and a lonely 
walk. He determines to take a chance on this. 
But he can’t do it till the coast is quite clear. That 
wouldn’t be till after closing time—ten o’clock. He 
waits about outside, probably in the garden, taking 
his stick with him. He may have armed himself 


234 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


with a knife—ah! that’s it, he took a tool of some 
sort—very likely an old dagger, as the doctor pointed 
out, to prise open any locks. Capital! 

“What next? As he stood there waiting, he 
lighted a cigar—being an inveterate smoker—from 
force of habit. He would hear the men come out of 
the inn at ten o’clock; he would hear Tom Gale 
walk off along the quay, and then all would be quiet, 
with a clear coast. 

“He goes down to the shore now. The dinghy is 
afloat. It’s much more simple to use her for his 
purpose than to run a canoe down to the water— 
and less noisy. He gets into the dinghy, laying his 
walking-stick down in the stern—a natural action, 
because the seat for the rower is well aft—pulls out 
to the yacht, gets on board and makes the dinghy 
fast. 

“Then he lights the lamp. That’s all right, be¬ 
cause anyone seeing it would naturally conclude the 
owner is aboard. People knew he was sleeping there 
that night. And he begins to make his search. 

“But Templeton comes back sooner than A ex¬ 
pected. A man doesn’t generally leave a house 
where he’s dining so early. But we know Templeton 
did. He sees the light on board, finds the dinghy 
has gone, and wonders what is up. Possibly he 
jumps to the conclusion that Jim Webb has come 


COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 


235 


back after all. A canoe is lying there handy; he 
runs her down to the water and paddles aboard. 

“Meanwhile A, still smoking his cigar from force 
of habit, has burnt it down to the band; he flicks it 
off, or it drops off by itself. Then he hears Temple¬ 
ton coming aboard. He is caught in the act. 

“He has the tool or dagger, whatever it is, in his 
hand. Possibly his first impulse is to hide—behind 
the table. But Templeton comes into the cabin, 
and, for the moment, hesitates in astonishment. 
The folding table is between them—that prevents 
a struggle. And then the climax comes. A, either 
desperate at being discovered or acting on a mur¬ 
derous instinct for the sake of the jewels—he hadn’t 
found them, and both lockers were open, as we know 
—probably the former, reaches over the table and 
aims a blow at the unlucky Templeton—a blow 
which proves fatal. 

“Then he probably pauses to think—he may even 
take a look outside, or listen to hear if anyone is 
about. He knows he’s risked his neck for the sake 
of those diamonds. He’s a cool hand and calculates 
there’s no greater risk—now the deed is done. So 
he takes out of Templeton’s pockets his wallet— 
anything he can find—he isn’t going to examine 
them at the moment—he knows he must clear out 
as quickly as possible. He puts his hand under the 


236 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

body and feels the waistcoat pockets—they are 
quite flat, so he doesn’t bother about them, little 
knowing that he misses the only stone there is. 

“His next move is to get back. Not the dinghy— 
the canoe, of course. The dinghy might arouse 
suspicion if found on the shore in the morning with 
the canoe fast to the yacht. In his haste and 
trepidation, he forgets the stick he has left in the 
dinghy till afterwards. Probably he is indoors by 
this time. He daren’t return that night. It’s too 
big a risk. And he daren’t remove the stick the 
next day; people are about from the beginning. 
His only chance to recover that stick is to do ex¬ 
actly what he did do—on Sunday night. There! 
What do you think of that?” 

He addressed the remark out loud to a solemn- 
looking rook that had perched for a moment on a 
post opposite to him. 

And the rook flapped its wings and replied: 

“Caw! Caw!” 

And then flew away as if it was not a bit im¬ 
pressed—which it ought to have been. For Detec¬ 
tive-Sergeant Colson’s reasoning was so very clear 
and lucid that he felt it was going to hang a man 
and give him promotion. 

Colson, unabashed, by the irresponsive and some- 


COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 


237 

what impertinent rook, went on with his construction 
methods. 

“When A had examined the contents of Temple¬ 
ton’s pockets,” and he chuckled, “he was a little 
disappointed, I fear. Of course, he burnt the lot. 
We shall never find them, but we shall find A!” 

Having arrived at this conclusion, to his great 
satisfaction, Colson turned his thoughts to the other 
object for which he had visited Marsh Quay that 
day. He wanted to get, somehow, into Proctor’s 
house, and that without anyone knowing about it. 
He was quite prepared, if occasion brought the ne¬ 
cessity, to make a burglarious entry that night, for 
which purpose he was minded to reconnoitre and 
view possible means of entrance. There was an¬ 
other method of course. He could ring the front¬ 
door bell, boldly ask to see Proctor, and, finding 
that he was out, beg to be allowed to remain until 
he returned. The only hindrance to this procedure 
was that he would arouse Proctor’s suspicions, 
which he was not anxious to do. There was a 
third way out of it, but rather risky. If he could 
satisfy himself that the two domestics were out 
of hearing in the kitchen at the back of the house, 
he might be able to slip in now—and try to find 
out what he wanted to know. 

The way in which he really did enter the house 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


238 

was entirely unforeseen by him. He went into the 
garden, through the little green gate, and was be¬ 
ginning carefully to observe how the windows of 
the dining-room opened, when, out of the front 
door, cigar in mouth, walked Mr. Proctor himself. 
Afterwards he ascertained that Proctor had, after 
walking half-way to Frattenbury, turned back and 
let himself in at a door behind the house. The 
nondescript-looking man who carried a fishing-rod, 
but whose sport seemed to fail just at the time that 
Proctor started for Frattenbury, told him this hours 
later. At present he made an effort to conceal his 
surprise and mentally said, “Damn 1 ” 

“Hallo, Mr. Colson/’ said Proctor cheerily, “still 
trying to find out about that nasty business, I 
suppose! You were coming to see me?” 

The detective had no resource but to reply in the 
affirmative. This he did in a perfectly natural man¬ 
ner. 

“Well, come along in, then,” said the little man; 
“it’s a bit chilly outside to-day.” 

He led the way to his bachelor dining-room, and 
gave the detective a chair. The latter had quite re¬ 
covered his composure; in fact, outwardly, he had 
not shown that he had lost it. 

“Just two or three things I should like to ask 
you, Mr. Proctor. I know you’re on the jury, of 


COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 


239 


course, but I won’t interfere with your prerogatives. 
I rather wish you’d have been summoned as a wit¬ 
ness instead.” 

“That was the fault of the police,” said Proctor, 
shrugging his shoulders. “Now, what can I tell you? 
Stop. Have a cigar first. I can offer you a really 
good smoke.” 

“Cheek,” thought Colson. 

Proctor went to a cupboard by the side of the 
fire-place, took a bunch of keys from his pocket 
and unlocked it. On a shelf were more than a 
dozen boxes of cigars. Colson eyed them eagerly, 
but was too far off to see them closely, and too wise 
to give himself away by moving. 

The little man carefully selected a box, shut the 
cupboard and locked it, put the box in front of 
Colson on the table and said: 

“I think you’ll like these. Now, then, Mr. Col¬ 
son?” 

The detective had taken out his pocket-book and 
was apparently consulting it closely. In reality he 
was inventing questions. 

“We’re not at all satisfied, sir,” he said. “You’ve 
got a good view of the estuary. You didn’t notice 
any other strange craft besides the Firefly about at 
the time the murder took place?” 

“No, I didn’t.” 


240 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“It’s as well to be certain. I suppose a small 
boat could have got up from lower down the estuary 
that night?” 

“Yes—certainly. The tide was flowing, you 
know.” 

“And she could have got back?” 

“There was no wind. It would have been hard 
rowing—unless whoever he was waited till the tide 
turned.” 

The detective asked several more questions and 
spoilt three or four pages of his notebook by writing 
down replies. Then the little man said: 

“I’m just going to have tea. Won’t you have 
some.” 

“Oh, thank you very much, if it’s not troubling 
you.” 

“Not at all—if you don’t mind excusing me for 
a few minutes. I’ve a letter to write—in my den. 
I want to catch the only outgoing post we have.” 

“Oh, certainly, sir.” 

“What a stroke of luck! ” exclaimed the detective 
when Proctor had left the room. “I should hardly 
have believed it; but, of course, he doesn’t know. 
He’s out of his reckoning—thinks because that band 
was changed that we don’t suspect anything.” 

For a minute Colson sat still, smoking his cigar. 
Then, with a careful look around, he crossed on 


COLSON’S DEDUCTIONS 


241 


tiptoe to the cupboard, took his skeleton keys from 
his pocket, cautiously inserted first one, then another 
in the keyhole and opened it. 

Swiftly he ran his eye over the array of boxes. 
Removing a pile in front, his face beamed as he 
caught sight of an unfastened box in the back tier. 
He recognised the label. Quickly he opened it, took 
out a cigar and looked at the band. 

“It’s the one!” he murmured. 

He dropped the cigar in his pocket, closed and 
locked the cupboard, resumed his seat, and was 
innocently reading a newspaper he had picked off 
the table, when Proctor returned, followed by his 
maid bringing in the tea. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the little man 
genially. “Do you take sugar, Mr. Colson?” 

They chatted on various topics, and when the 
detective rose to go, Proctor accompanied him to 
the door. 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Proctor.” 

“Not at all. Only too glad to have been of any 
use to you. See you to-morrow at the adjourned 
inquest, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” said Colson, “we shall meet at the inquest. 
Good afternoon, sir.” 

There was nothing further to detain him at Marsh 


242 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


Quay, so he went back to Frattenbury and had a 
long conversation with the superintendent. 

“Excellent,” said the latter, ticking off items on 
his fingers as he spoke. “The same brand of cigar, 
and the cablegram from Cuba tells us they have 
sent him these from time to time, and the firm in 
London corroborate it.” 

“And he’s been in Switzerland,” added Colson. 

“And he’s been in Switzerland,” echoed the super¬ 
intendent. “It’s quite enough to go upon. I’ll make 
out the deposition, and then—after the inquest.” 

“After the inquest,” the detective said with a 
chuckle. “I wonder what sort of a verdict the fore¬ 
man will persuade the jury to return! ” 

“Wilful murder—against some person unknown,” 
replied the superintendent sardonically. 

“But it won’t be a true verdict,” said Colson with 
decision. 


CHAPTER XVI 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 

The coroner, in re-opening the inquiry, intimated 
that only one witness of any importance would be 
heard, and that, with the full consent of the police, 
who would not, he understood, ask for a further 
adjournment, the jury would be called upon to record 
their verdict that afternoon. 

The first witness called was a postman who gave 
evidence that he had seen the deceased coming out 
of the Cathedral precincts at Frattenbury between 
half-past eight and nine on the Saturday evening. 
He, the witness, was standing outside the post office, 
opposite the gateway into the Close, where there 
was an electric lamp. 

“Why did you not tell us this at the commence¬ 
ment of the inquiry?” asked the coroner. 

“Because it was only through a portrait of the 
deceased, published in a newspaper afterwards, that 
I remembered his face, sir.” 

“Very well. Did you see which way he went when 
he came out of the Close?” 


243 


244 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Up the street, towards the Cross, sir. ;,J 

“That was all you noticed?” 

“Yes, sir, nothing more.” 

“Thank you ” 

Isaac Moss was called next. He was terribly 
nervous, and gave his evidence in such a low tone 
of voice that the coroner had frequently to ask him 
to speak up. Bit by bit the story he had told the 
superintendent and Colson was painfully dragged 
from him. The jury listened attentively, and evi¬ 
dently one or two of them were not much struck 
with his veracity. The coroner then questioned him. 

“Why didn’t you inform the police at the time?” 

“I was too much frightened.” 

“You know that you put yourself in a very serious 
position, Mr. Moss?” 

“Yes, I know that. I regret it very much now.” 

“You say that it was after half-past twelve when 
you crossed the estuary?” 

“It was; it struck one just after I had left the 
yacht.” 

“Have you anyone who can corroborate your 
statement that you had not left your house before?” 

“My wife is here, and my housekeeper, who 
brought in some hot water for my whisky just before 
eleven o’clock.” 

“We will hear them—for your sake,” said the 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 245 

coroner. “But in any case, it is my duty to repri¬ 
mand you seriously for your foolish behaviour.” 

Mrs. Moss and the housekeeper having given brief 
evidence, a juror said: 

“May I ask you a question, sir?” 

The coroner nodded. 

“Isn’t it a fact that the doctor who examined 
the body told us last time that the murder might 
have been committed after midnight?” 

“That is so,” replied the coroner, looking round. 
“The doctor is here. Would you like him to repeat 
his statement?” 

“If you please, sir.” 

And the doctor said: 

“Yes. I certainly stated that the murder might 
have been committed after twelve, but not long after. 
The probability is that it took place before that 
hour. Rigor mortis was palpably developed.” 

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “Are there any 
more witnesses?” 

There was only Joe Thatcher, who gave brief evi¬ 
dence as to seeing Moss board the yacht, and gave 
no little amusement at his indignantly assumed in¬ 
nocence when questioned as to his doings that night. 
The police were careful to state that he had come 
forward voluntarily. 

The coroner summed up briefly, not too greatly 


246 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

in favour of Moss, and directed the jury to find their 
verdict. 

“Do you wish to retire, gentlemen?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the juryman who had spoken 
before. 

The jury went into another room, and there was 
a little buzz of conversation. The coroner did not 
join in it. He was absorbed in his notes. Anthony 
Crosby, who was seated next to the Chief Constable, 
said to the latter: 

“I should like to call at the police station for a 
short conversation. There’s something I want to 
see.” 

“You shall,” said the Chief Constable. “I’ll motor 
you back in my car. Norton and Colson are coming 
in the other. We shall probably have some interest¬ 
ing information to give you by that time,” he went 
on grimly. “There are going to be developments.” 

“Really?” 

Major Renshaw nodded. 

“You’ll see,” he said. “I hope the jury won’t be 
long—though it really doesn’t matter what verdict 
they bring in. I say—you won’t mind waiting a 
few minutes before we start back?” 

“Oh, dear, no.” 

But the jury still remained out of the room. Pres- 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 247 

ently a note was handed in and given to the coroner, 
who opened it, read it and then said: 

“The jury wish to know whether the police are 
satisfied with the evidence of Mr. Moss.” 

He glanced at Moss as he spoke. The Jew’s face 
paled. The superintendent whispered a word or two 
to him, and the Chief Constable said to the coroner: 

“You may tell the jury, sir, that we are perfectly 
satisfied. We have nothing to bring against Mr. 
Moss.” 

Moss gave a sigh of relief, and the coroner 
scribbled a note to the jury. In about ten minutes’ 
time that body filed in, one or two of them looking 
very heated. 

The coroner addressed the foreman. 

“Are you all agreed on your verdict?” 

“We are, sir.” 

“And it is?” 

“Wilful murder against some person or persons 
unknown.” 

“Very well. I agree with your finding. The in¬ 
quiry is closed.” 

After a few brief formalities the assembly broke 
up. Major Renshaw, the superintendent and Col¬ 
son detached themselves from the rest and went 
outside the inn. Presently Proctor came out and 


248 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


was walking across to his house opposite, when the 
Chief Constable spoke to him. 

“We have a matter of business with you that is 
best discussed in private, Mr. Proctor. May we 
come over to your house?” 

He looked at the three men steadily, smiled slightly 
and said: 

“By all means, Major. Come along.” As they 
walked across he said to them, in quite a matter- 
of-fact way: “I had quite a little trouble with that 
jury. Two or three of them were bent on returning 
a verdict against the unfortunate Moss. Of course, 
he didn’t do it, but it wasn’t till we had the note 
from the coroner that they fell in with the rest.” 

“No—he didn’t do it,” said the Major dryly. 

The little man was opening his front door. He 
gave the Chief Constable a quick glance, pursed up 
his mouth and smiled. He led the way into the 
dining-room. The three policemen were silent. Then 
Major Renshaw addressed him, his face very grave. 

“Mr. Proctor, I fear I have a most unpleasant 
du-” 

“I know exactly what you’re going to do,” broke 
in the little man before the other could go on. 
“You’re going to arrest me for the murder of Regi¬ 
nald Templeton, and then warn me that anything 



MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 249 

I say may be used as evidence against me. Isn’t 
that so?” 

For a moment or two Major Renshaw was silent 
with astonishment. The superintendent gave a low 
whistle. Colson exclaimed: 

“Great Scott!” 

The Chief Constable recovered himself. 

“You are right, Mr. Proctor,” he said sternly. 
“Take care what you say, sir!” For Proctor was 
again about to speak, and he did speak, in spite 
of the warning. 

“One minute, Major—I beg of you, one minute. 
Oh, you may make use of anything I say, and 
welcome. But it’s for your own sake. I’ve a strong 
respect for the police. I knew you were going to 
arrest me. I expected it before this.” 

“You are only doing yourself harm, sir!” thun¬ 
dered the Chief Constable in his best military style. 
“I warn you.” 

“And I warn you, Major,” said the imperturbable 
little man, pointing at the Chief Constable, “if you 
once formally arrest me, I shall remain silent until 
I’m before the magistrates. And then you and your 
police will be a laughing-stock. And I shan’t even 
have to employ a lawyer. It’s true, Major.” 

The astonished Chief Constable hesitated. He 
turned to the superintendent, but the latter only 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


250 

shook his head in bewilderment. Cclsor was hard 
at work biting his finger-nails. It was an unpre¬ 
cedented scene. 

“What do you mean, sir?” asked the Chief Con¬ 
stable, hesitating a little. 

“This, Major. I’ll go with you to Frattenbury 
with pleasure, and you can detain me till you’re 
satisfied. I’ll explain everything, and you may ar¬ 
rest me if you like when I’ve finished—though you 
won’t. But if you do it now—I’m dumb.” 

The Major took the superintendent to the other 
end of the room and held a whispered conversation 
with him. Proctor calmly lighted a cigar and handed 
his case to Colson. The latter refused it with a 
shake of the head, and the little man only grinned 
exasperatingly at him. 

Then the Major came forward. 

“Very well, Mr. Proctor,” he said stiffly, “we will 
take you into Frattenbury, please, on detention for 
the present. But I warn you that there are ugly 
facts against you.” 

“I know there are,” said Proctor coolly, “and 
I was a bit glad to hear that Jew’s evidence just 
now—and to hear the doctor repeat his. But I’ve 
nothing to be afraid of. I’m quite ready, Major.” 

It was when they arrived at the police station 
that Proctor explained. Crosby was present. The 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 251 


Chief Constable had told him something about the 
affair as he motored him into Frattenbury. 

“You may as well hear what he’s got to say,” 
he said. 

Proctor was accommodated with a chair in the 
private office at the police station. The superin¬ 
tendent sat at his desk, pen in hand. Major Ren- 
shaw began: 

“Now, Mr. Proctor, we will hear what you have 
to say, if you please.” 

“Very well, Major. Will you kindly send for Mr. 
Stephen Merrifield? His place of business is just 
opposite here.” 

“The corn merchant?” 

“Exactly. You’ll take his word, I suppose?” 

Without replying the Major sent for Merrifield. 
The little man went on: 

“When I first had a notion that you were suspect¬ 
ing me, Mr. Colson,” he said, addressing the de¬ 
tective, “was that Monday morning when I recovered 
my canoe. My nephew told me what you had asked 
him about disturbing me in the dark hours, and so 
on, and I knew you wouldn’t have said it without 
some reason. Also, I saw you were interested in 
that canoe being taken away—though for the life 
of me I can’t guess why. I put two and two together 
and came to the conclusion that you were trying 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


252 

to find out whether I had run off with my own 
canoe, and left it where it was pretty sure Phil 
would find it in the morning. And it puzzled me. 
But it also put me on my guard.” 

“Go on,” said the superintendent. 

“Well, then came the inquest. When the doctor 
said that death might have occurred after midnight, 
I was just a little perturbed—you’ll see why pres¬ 
ently. I suppose I was the nearest person to Temple¬ 
ton—his yacht lay just opposite my house. And 
when Canon Fittleworth handed in that cigar band, 
for the moment I was fairly alarmed.” 

“That’s why you cha-” began the superinten¬ 

dent, but Colson stopped him with a warning gesticu¬ 
lation. 

“Eh?” asked Proctor. 

“Oh—nothing,” said the superintendent. “Go on, 
please.” 

“Although the Canon stated the cigar was one of 
his own special brand, I knew I had the same brand 
in my house. Why,” he said to the superintendent, 
“you smoked one yourself—on the Sunday morning, 
and remarked how good it was. Don’t you re¬ 
member?” 

“I do,” said the superintendent, “but I never 
noticed the band.” 

“I was wondering if you had,” went on Proctor, 



MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 253 

with a smile. “Then I wanted the coroner to put 
a question to the Canon, but he wouldn’t allow it.” 

“What was the question?” asked Major Renshaw. 

“I only wanted him to ask whether the Canon 
could remember to whom he gave any of his cigars. 
But I concluded afterwards that you would examine 
the reverend gentleman pretty closely on that point. 
I gather you did, and came to the conclusion that it 
wasn’t in that quarter that you had to make your 
investigations.” 

“Meanwhile,” said Major Renshjaw, “knowing 
you possessed the same brand of cigar, and in order 
to put us off your track-” 

But he was interrupted. A newcomer was shown 
in, a portly man with grey moustache and short 
beard and a round, jovial face. 

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Merrifield,” said the 
Chief Constable. “Do you mind waiting just a 
minute?” 

“Certainly, sir.” He looked round the room, 
nodded affably to Mr. Proctor, and took the seat 
which Colson offered him. 

“Go on, Mr. Proctor.” 

“Where was I? Oh, yes—I know. Well, very 
soon after the inquest, I found I was being watched. 
That wasn’t much of a fisherman you sent over to 
Marsh Quay, Mr. Colson! Oh, yes, I knew. When 



THE TEMPLETON CASE 


254 

I went over to Portsmouth last Monday on business, 
and found that this fisherman travelled by the same 
train there and back, I was pretty certain.” 

“We were bound to keep an eye on you,” said 
the superintendent. 

“I don’t dispute it. But I’m afraid, as an inno¬ 
cent man, I resented it. My way of looking at it 
was that I’d have liked you to come and have the 
whole thing out with me. Of course, you know 
your own methods best. Anyhow, yesterday I set a 
little trap for you, Mr. Colson. I hope you’ll for¬ 
give me.” 

“A trap?” said Colson. 

“In this way. I saw you lounging about at Marsh 
Quay. I imagined you wanted me out of the way, 
so I started for Frattenbury. But I very soon 
retraced my steps, and let myself in at the back door. 
Out of the window I saw you in my garden. I 
came out and asked you in. Then I made an excuse 
for leaving you in my dining-room, which was what 
you wanted, I imagine.” 

Colson looked very black, especially as the super¬ 
intendent gave him an amused glance. 

“Well,” went on the little man, “while you were 
examining the contents of my cigar cupboard I was 
watching you from outside, through the window. I 
was behind the laurel bush opposite it! You took 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 255 

one of those cigars. I’d counted ’em first. So I 
guessed you were going to arrest me pretty soon.” 

“That’s all very well, so far as it goes,” said the 
Chief Constable, “but it’s only your own story. It 
doesn’t in any way clear you.” 

“I know. But you’ll soon be satisfied. In the 
first place, the evidence of Isaac Moss—which you 
allow—proves that the crime was committed before 
one o’clock on the Sunday morning, eh, Major?” 

“Yes, I concede that.” 

“Very well. Now will you hear what Mr. Merri- 
field has to say?” 

Merrifield was just going to speak, but the Chief 
Constable held up his hand for silence. 

“What do you wish me to ask him, Mr.-Proctor?” 

“Where I was on the Saturday night.” 

“If you know that, Mr. Merrifield, perhaps you’ll 
tell us?” 

“Why, of course I will. You don’t mean to say 
you’ve been thinking my friend here committed a 
murder? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly! It’s all 
right, Major Renshaw. Mr. Proctor had supper in 
my house on the Saturday night in question. He 
and my wife and a friend staying with us played 
bridge afterwards, and I’m ashamed to say we went 
on into Sunday morning. It was close on one o’clock 
when we finished the last rubber. It’s a lonesome 


256 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

sort of a walk to Marsh Quay, so I offered to run 
Mr. Proctor back in my car—and did.” 

The superintendent brought his hand down on 
the desk. 

“That explains what Joe Thatcher said about a 
motor!” he exclaimed. “Well, Mr. Merrifield?” 

“That’s all there is, Superintendent. It didn’t take 
long to get down there. I stopped the car opposite 
his gate, and he asked me to go in. I went, and 
I don’t deny that we had a final whisky and soda 
to wind up the evening. It was exactly half-past one 
by the clock on his mantelpiece when I went out 
and came back to Frattenbury. I hope that satis¬ 
fies you?” 

“Am I to be set at liberty?” asked Proctor dryly. 

The little man looked so quaint, with his bald, 
egg-shaped head, that Major Renshaw could scarcely 
restrain a smile. 

“There’s nothing else we can do with you, Mr. 
Proctor. But I wish you had told us all this before.” 

Proctor drew himself up with an air of injured 
dignity. 

“I objected to being shadowed,” he said. “It put 
my back up. You’ll confess it wouldn’t have been 
wise to have arrested me?” 

“Ah, don’t say any more, Mr. Proctor. We’ll try 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 257 

to forgive you this time. I’m sorry we’ve upset 
you, but we’re quite satisfied now.” 

“You don’t want me any longer, Major?” asked 
Merrifield. “All right. Come along, Proctor, old 
chap. You’ll be wanting something to pick you up 
after all this, and I’ve got it at my house.” 

When they were gone the Major, the superinten¬ 
dent and Anthony Crosby looked at each other for 
a moment or two, and then simultaneously burst 
into a roar of laughter. But Colson did not join 
in. His face was as black as a thunder-cloud. 

“Come,” said Crosby to the Chief Constable, 
“you’ll admit he fairly had you, Major Renshaw? 
Aren’t you glad you didn’t arrest him?” 

“I am,” said the Major grimly. “I confess it. 
Conceited little beggar! I’m glad he had a fright, 
though. He did, you know, or he wouldn’t have 
changed that cigar band at the inquest.” 

“Ah,” said the lawyer reflectively, “it was only 
natural, I suppose. A sudden impulse, you know. 
I can quite understand that even an innocent man, 
suddenly confronted with such a damning bit of 
evidence against him, should succumb to the temp¬ 
tation and take advantage of his peculiar oppor¬ 
tunity. How do you think he did it?” 

“I know,” said Colson gloomily—“there were 
several bands from Grayson’s cigars lying in the 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


258 

grate. He picked up one of those. I remembered 
afterwards—I could almost swear I saw him do it. 
That was what put us on to Grayson. We’ve taken 
all three suspects—and now there’s an end of them.” 

The Chief Constable, beneath his somewhat stiff 
military bearing, was a kindly man. He put his 
hand on the detective’s shoulder. 

“Come, Colson,” he said, “you couldn’t help it. 
It’s a bit of a set-back, I know; but after all, it’s 
cleared the ground.” 

Colson looked up, and blurted out what was on his 
mind: 

“Are you going to call in Scotland Yard, sir?” 

The superintendent looked hard at Major Ren- 
shaw, but said nothing. The Major reflected. Then 
he said: 

“You shall have another week, Colson. Get on 
with the job and see what you can do.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Look here,” broke in Crosby. “I’ve got a train 
to catch, and I’d almost forgotten—I want to have 
a look at that blotting-pad. I’ve got the copy, but 
I want to see the original.” 

The superintendent produced it. The lawyer took 
it to the light, pulled a big magnifying glass out 
of his pocket, and examined it carefully. 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 259 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “my guess is correct. Who 
made the copy?” 

“I did,” said Colson. 

“You’ve left out something. Look here—through 
my glass. Take that word ICES. Do you notice, 
first of all, that there’s a slightly bigger space be¬ 
tween the E and the S than there is between the 
other letters?” 

“Y-e-s,” admitted the detective. 

“And can you see, with the help of the glass, 
anything between the E and the S?” 

“There’s the faintest little mark—not between 
them, but just over the space.” 

“Exactly. And that’s a comma—an apostrophe. 
It isn’t EZRA’S ICES at all; it’s EZRA, then three 
spaces, then ICE’S. The first space represents the 
division between the two words, so we want two 
letters before ICES. EZRA being a Christian name, 
it follows in all probability that the other is a 
surname. Now, what surnames of five letters end in 
ICE? Take the supposition first, that the second 
missing letter is a vowel. You might have ‘Daice,’ 
‘Lake,’ ‘Make’—they don’t look likely, eh?—or 
4 Reice,’ or ‘Joice’—generally spelt with a ‘y’—° r 
‘Juice.’ I’ve tried every consonant as a first letter. 
Take consonants as the second letter, and put any 
vowels as the first, and you don’t make much either. 


26 o 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


But there are just two fairly common surnames 
that you can get by using two consonants as the 
first two letters, and they are ‘PRICE’ and ‘GRICE.’ 
If I were working on this clue, I should go for Ezra 
Price or Ezra Grice.” 

The three men followed him closely. 

“Now take the next two words, connected by 
the ‘&.’ I’ve only time to give you a hasty deduc¬ 
tion. There are two words which would agree with 
the spaces in the first word—‘profession’ or ‘con¬ 
fession.’ ‘ROO’ is at the end of the line of writing. 
It has obviously only one letter in front of it, and 
one, or perhaps two, after it. I’ve tried every con¬ 
sonant as the first letter—with only one result. And 
I make the word ‘PROOF’ or ‘PROOFS.’ There 
you are—‘Ezra Price’s (or Grice’s) confession and 
proof.’ It looks interesting. Whoever it was to 
whom Templeton wrote that letter, he knew some¬ 
thing about Ezra Price—or Grice.” 

“That looks feasible,” said the Chief Constable. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” went on the lawyer. 
“As Templeton’s representative—he’s made me his 
executor—I’ll put an advertisement in the papers 
asking anyone who heard from him since he re¬ 
turned to England to communicate with me and tell 
me the nature of the correspondence. If a reference 
to this letter turns up, well and good. If not, it’s 


MR. PROCTOR UPSETS MATTERS 261 


a process of elimination, and we can assume that 
the recipient doesn’t want to give it away. Let me 
do this—then there won’t be a question of the police 
having anything to do with it. I must run; I’ve 
only just time to catch my train. I’ll let you know 
the result.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


NEW THEORIES 

“You've just got to solve it, Bob, and you’re 
going to solve it,” said Mrs. Colson that night 
to her somewhat disconsolate husband. “And that 
for two reasons: first because such a wicked wretch 
ought to be punished, and secondly because you’re 
my dear hubby. So there now!” 

She gave him a kiss and took a chair by him in 
front of the fire. 

“I’ve got to begin all over again,” he said moodily. 

“Of course you have, dear. And what of that? 
You’ve ever so much better a chance now you’ve 
cleared away the hindrances. Now, let’s begin. 
We’re going to talk it over, Bob, and your wife is 
going to help you with her big brain—oh, ever so 
much! ” 

“Well, I’ve got a week’s probation, so to speak,” 
he said, “and I’ll jolly well try. All right, we’ll 
talk it over. You shall begin.” 

She put her elbows on her knees and rested her 
chin on her hands. 

“First of all, then, let’s get rid of all the old 

262 


NEW THEORIES 


263 


theories. You’ve gone on the supposition that the 
murderer was near the spot all the time, haven’t 
you?” 

“Well, it looked like it.” 

“I know. Now, is there anyone else living there 
whom you could suspect?” 

By this time he had a mental category of every 
man, woman and child at Marsh Quay. He turned 
it over. 

“No,” he said, “only boatmen and labourers— 
and a retired parson who lives near, a very nice 
chap. Rule him out.” 

“Very well. Then we’ll begin by assuming that 
the murderer came from a distance.” 

“Frattenbury?” 

“Possibly. We’ll get back to that later on. Next 
point—the motive. Up to now you’ve thought it 
was to get the diamonds. Let’s throw that out? 
I’m sick of the diamonds.” 

“You wouldn’t be if you had ’em, dear. All right, 
then the diamonds shall go. Let’s say he was after 
something else.” 

“And that something else was Templeton’s life.” 

“Eh?” 

“Why not? There is such a thing as premeditated 
murder, isn’t there?” 

“You may be right,” he assented, “or Templeton 


264 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

may have been possessed of something else-” 

“That was worth taking his life to get! Re¬ 
member that!” she said, lifting a warning finger. 
“People don’t generally commit murder for the sake 
of killing anyone, you know. Now, let’s get on. 
Let’s try and picture how it was done.” 

“I told you last night how I’d worked it out, dear. 
The murderer went on board in the dinghy-” 

“Stop, stop. Now remember, Bob, that’s an old 
theory. Everything we discuss to-night must be a 
new idea. That theory presupposes that the mur¬ 
derer was on the yacht first. Put it away. Tell me 
what other alternatives were there? I’m out of my 
depth here.” 

He thought carefully for a few minutes and re¬ 
plied: 

“Only three, as far as I can see. First, some 
boat from outside came in. Not likely, because one 
of the canoes was found unfastened in the morning. 
Mrs. Yates told me this. Secondly, that the mur¬ 
derer went out to the yacht in the canoe after 
Templeton had returned. Also unlikely, because he 
would scarcely have transferred his stick to the 
dinghy. Thirdly, that hardly seems probable.” 

“Then it’s worth consideration, Bob. You’ve gone, 
too much, on probabilities. Let’s have this ‘thirdly,’ 
please.” 



NEW THEORIES 


265 

She had never heard of the theologian’s famous 
dictum, “Credo, quia increditjk est,” but it was the 
same line of reasoning. 1 

“It’s this, then. Templeton himself rowed the 
murderer out in the dinghy, the latter sitting in the 
stern and laying his stick down as he sat. They 
both went on board and the murder was committed. 
Now comes the improbable part. The murderer 
rowed back to shore in the dinghy, ran the canoe 
down to the water, paddled back towing the dinghy, 
made the latter fast again to the yacht, and finally 
returned in the canoe, dragging her up again, but 
forgetting to fasten her painter to the post as be¬ 
fore.” 

For some minutes Mrs. Colson gazed steadily into 
the fire in silence. Colson refilled and lighted his 
pipe, and waited. Then she said: 

“I see. But he might have had a very artful 
object in doing this. If he went on board with 
Templeton, and he didn’t live at Marsh Quay, he 
must have met him somewhere else first—and gone 
with him. Well, if he’d only landed in the dinghy 
and left it on the shore, it would have been a clear 
proof that Templeton had taken him on board— 
and if, by any chance, they had happened to be 
seen by anybody first —he would naturally have been 
suspected. His very best plan would be to leave the 


266 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


dinghy fast to the yacht, and he could only have 
done so in the way you say.” 

Colson smoked for a moment or two. 

“It was taking a big risk—risking time for getting 
clear away.” 

“It was worth it, Bob. Would it make much 
noise—getting the canoe down to the water?” 

“Oh, no; it was lying on a patch of grass—the 
grass grows right down to the water’s edge, you 
know—and if the tide wasn’t quite up—and it 
wasn’t—there would be soft, sandy mud just there 
between the green and the water’s edge. The stony 
part of the beach is nearer the quay. And the canoe 
is almost light enough for a strong man to carry. 
No, there needn’t have been any noise.” 

She looked at him and smiled. 

“We’re getting on, then.” 

“There’s another point in favour—ah, you’ve 
scored again, dear—I was just going to say that it 
would make things look so improbable.” 

They both laughed heartily. Suddenly a little 
shadow came over her face. 

“My dear,” she said, “he’s a very clever man— 
I’m sure he is. Do take care, Bob.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“When you match your wits against a man like 


NEW THEORIES 267 

this you have to be careful. And he probably knows 
you’re doing it.” 

“That’s all right,” he said; “he’s put me down as 
a blunderer long ago. Remember, he knows nothing 
about the walking-stick or the cigar. He can’t 
suspect.” 

“Don’t let him, then. Well—let’s follow it up. 
He walked out with Templeton from Frattenbury.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“I don’t know—just because I’m a woman, and 
you can’t expect me always to reason things out 
and say why. But I am going to think now—don’t 
speak, Bob.” 

There was a long silence. She suddenly turned 
towards him, gripped his hand, and said: 

“Bob!” 

“What?” 

“Suppose you’re mistaken again! And by our 
plan you are, you know—because we’re trying every¬ 
thing fresh.” 

“I don’t see what-” 

“Don’t interrupt, dear. Suppose those stick marks 
were not made by Templeton going into Fratten¬ 
bury, but were made by the murderer walking out 
with him.” 

“But that’s not likely. They were on the right 
side of the path coming in, and-” 




268 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“You silly dear! But they were on the left-hand 
side going out. Bob—look out for a left-handed 
man!” 

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “there’s something in 
that. In that case Templeton carried his stick in 
with him and didn’t put it to the ground.” 

“Was he short or tall?” 

“Medium—inclined to be short.” 

She clapped her hands. 

“That’s it, dear!—look out for a tall, left-handed 
man. If only you could find out whether Temple¬ 
ton carried his stick—for certain-?” 

“Stop—stop a bit!” 

He got up and paced the little room, smoking 
furiously. 

“I know!” he exclaimed, stopping suddenly. 
“There is a chance of finding out. If only he re¬ 
members.” 

“Who?” 

“I won’t tell you till I’m certain. Go on, dear.” 

She waited a little. 

“I can’t think of any more, Bob. Is there any¬ 
thing else new —anything, I mean, that you haven’t 
followed up yet?” 

“There’s that blotting-pad,” he said. “I don’t 
know that there’s anything in it-” 


NEW THEORIES 269 

“Then for goodness , sake follow it up, Bob. 
That’s what I mean” 

“Well, the lawyer from London, Mr. Crosby, gave 
me a hint about that. I’ll tell you.” 

He produced his copy and showed her what 
Crosby had pointed out. 

“Ezra Price—or Ezra Grice,” she said, “let’s 
take it then. How would you work on it?” 

After a bit he said: 

“Well, the only way is this. If we take the 
letter at all as part of the business, and fit it in 
with these new theories, we must assume that the 
man to whom it was written knows something about 
Ezra. And we are assuming that this man lives— 
or was at the time—in Frattenbury. But I’ve never 
heard the name of Ezra—Price or Grice.” 

“But you’ve only lived in Frattenbury six years, 
dear. Of course you can’t expect to have heard of 
him. Can’t you find out if he was ever here, or if 
anyone knew anything about him?” 

“I might,” he said. “Mr. Buckland, the chemist, 
has got a pretty fair memory of all kinds of people. 
He’s lived here all his life. We often go to him 
when we want to find out the past of anyone. I’ll 
try him to-morrow.” 

She jumped up from her seat. “I’m going to 
get supper now, Bob. We’ve done enough for to- 


2 70 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


night. Yes, we’ll have it early because you’re going 
to be a nice old dear and take me to the pictures, 
and forget there was ever a murder at Marsh Quay 
and a detective who did his best, and then—even 
though he was a brainy, oh, ever so clever a man, 
and wanted to be an inspector one day—had to take 
his little wife’s advice, and pay for it in kisses— 
oh—that’s enough, Bob—it wasn’t worth all those.” 

“The overplus were for yourself,” said Colson, 
“and I still owe a heavy bill.” 

* * * * * 

Next day Colson, in a far more cheery mood, after 
seeing Constable Gadsden for a moment and con¬ 
sulting the latter’s ponderous and well-thumbed 
notebook, cycled once more on the now familiar road 
to Marsh Quay, where he inquired at a cottage for 
one George Simmonds, and was told by his wife that 
he was helping to load the Lucy, which had returned 
once more for a cargo of gravel. He very soon 
found the man and said to him: 

“Have you got a good memory, Simmonds?” 

“I remember the last man as stood me a pint o’ 
beer, guv’nor,” was the response. 

“Well, perhaps you’ll have the same cause to 
remember me when we’ve finished. Anyhow, on the 
morning when the murder was discovered here you 
told the police-constable you’d met Mr. Templeton 


NEW THEORIES 


271 


the previous afternoon—going into Frattenbury.” 

“That’s right, guv’nor. ’Twarn’t he as give me 
that pint, though.” 

“Quite so. Now, let’s see if you can tell me how 
he was dressed.” 

The man described him pretty accurately. 

“Good,” said the detective; “had he got anything 
in his hand?” 

The man thought a moment. 

“Yes—a stick. I didn’t take no notice on it, 
though—I can’t say what ’twas like.” 

“Never mind that. Was he carrying it or walking 
with it?” 

Simmonds grinned sheepishly and shook his head. 

“Look here,” said Colson, picking up a bit of 
stick that was lying on the ground, “this is what I 
mean. Did he hold it by the handle and stick it in 
the ground like this —or carry it, by the middle, 
so ?” 

“Oh, I can easily tell ’ee that. He had it by the 
middle, same as you have now.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Sartain, guv’nor—I see him a-doin’ on it.” 

“All right. Here you are then.” 

The man spat on the coin, pocketed it, and 
grinned. 

“Thankee, guv’nor—that’s good for a quart, that 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


272 

is. I shan’t forget you —if anyone wants to pay 
me for rememberin’.” 

“One to the wife,” said Colson as he sped back to 
Frattenbury. “Now for Mr. Buckland.” 

He found the chemist standing behind his coun¬ 
ter, a grave-looking man with wrinkled forehead and 
a big walrus moustache. 

“I want a bit of information, if you can give it to 
me, Mr. Buckland.” 

“Certainly. Come inside, won’t you?” 

“Inside” was a tiny, dingy parlour at the back 
of the shop. The chemist closed the door. 

“Well, Mr. Colson?” 

“You know most people who’ve lived here the 
last forty years, Mr. Buckland. Did you ever hear 
of anyone by the name of Ezra Price?” 

“Ezra Price,” reflected the chemist—“the name 
has a sort of familiar sound. There aren’t many 
Ezras about, either. Ezra Trice —it—somehow 
doesn’t seem right—yet ” 

“Ezra Grice, then.” 

“Ezra Grice —that seems more like it—yes—now 

let me think—it must have been a long time ago- 

Grice—yes—I know now. Pie was a lawyer’s clerk 
—or something—I’m beginning to remember—a bad 
lot, wasn’t he? I’m not sure. Stop, though—I 
know who’d tell you more about him. He was in 




NEW THEORIES 273 

Mr. Norwood’s office—so far as I can recollect.” 

“Mr. Norwood? 

“That’s it—you’d better try him.” 

“All right, I will,” said the detective. “Thank 
you very much for putting me on the scent.” 

“Not at all.” 

As he passed down the street, however, he saw 
Mr. Norwood hurrying into the Magistrates’ Court 
which was then sitting. So, wishing to see him at 
leisure, he called at the lawyer’s house in the eve¬ 
ning, when he felt pretty certain of finding him at 
home. He waited in the hall while the maid tapped 
at the dining-room door and announced him. 

“Oh—show him in here,” came a voice from the 
room. 

Francis Norwood had just finished his solitary 
dinner and was draining his glass of port. 

“Good evening, sergeant,” he said in his formal 
manner. “Something you want to see me about? 
Another inquest?” 

“No, sir. But I thought you could give me some 
information—I was told you could. I understand 
there was a young man employed by you—many 
years ago.” 

“I’ve employed a number of young men in my 
time—some of them to my cost! What was his 
name?” 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


274 

“Ezra Grice, sir.” 

“Oh—oh—-yes, I think I remember him. Of 
course I do.” 

He reached for the decanter, noticed it was empty, 
and said: 

“I was going to offer you a glass of port, sergeant, 
but I see there’s none left. Will you have a whisky 
and soda?” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Francis Norwood rose stiffly from his chair and 
opened the door of a sideboard just behind him. 

“Tut, tut!” he exclaimed, “there isn’t any de¬ 
canter—oh, here’s a bottle.” 

He took a corkscrew from a drawer and drew the 
cork from the bottle, Colson looking on in silence. 
Then he produced two tumblers and poured whisky 
into both, filling them up with soda. 

One he gave to Colson, and the other he kept for 
himself. First taking a drink from it, he said: 

“Well, now, I dare say I can help you. May I 
ask what you want to know about Ezra Grice?” 

“Eh? Oh—yes. Anything you can tell me, sir.” 

“And why?” 

“It concerns a case we have in hand, sir.” 

Colson never gave anything away if he could help 
it. 

“I see. Well, it’s years ago now—quite twenty 


NEW THEORIES 


275 


years, sergeant. Grice was my clerk. He must have 
been three or four and twenty at the time. A sharp 
young fellow. His parents kept a little bookshop 
in the North Street—they’re both dead now. Do 
you want to know why he left me?” 

“If you please, sir.” 

“I’m sorry to say I had to dismiss him; I ought 
to have prosecuted him, but I didn’t. He robbed 
me, sergeant. For the sake of his parents, who were 
respectable people and implored me not to put him 
in prison, I spared him. He left Frattenbury at 
once, and, so far as I know, he’s never entered it 
again.” 

“Do you know where he went?” 

“I believe he emigrated—the best thing he could 
do. But, mind you, I’ve never seen him since.” 

“Have you ever heard of him, sir?” 

“In a way. A rumour reached me some time 
ago that he was dead, but I can’t vouch for it.” 

“We should like to get hold of him if he’s alive,” 
said the detective, after a short pause. 

The lawyer took a sip at his glass, and replied in 
his dry, precise manner: 

“If you really want him, sergeant, I’d do any¬ 
thing I can in the matter. Why not advertise for 
him? You’re quite welcome to use my name in an 
advertisement—unless you think if he is alive and 


276 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

sees the advertisement it might frighten him? But, 
pray do what you think best. If you like to step 
into my office in the morning I can show you his 
record—and I may have notes about him you might 
like to see. Any way, I’m quite at your service.” 

“That is very kind of you, sir. We may try 
advertising.” 

“Do—by all means. I hope it may be successful 
—if you want him. Good evening, sergeant. Come 
to my office in the morning, then.” 

When the detective had departed, the lawyer 
lighted a cigarette and slowly finished his whisky; 
then he took up a newspaper he had laid down on 
the table when Colson came in, and was studying 
it when the maid announced: 

“Dr. Hazell, sir.” 

“Come in, Hazell.” 

The little doctor entered. He was a bit flustered. 

“Good evening, Norwood. I haven’t come in to 
stay. I say, you remember when I was dining here 
some nights back Sir Peter told us about ‘Virginian 
Reefs’—said they were good, don’t you know?” 

“Well?” 

“I hope to the Lord you won’t get any, Nor¬ 
wood.” 

The lawyer laughed his dry, short laugh. 

“Why?” 


NEW THEORIES 


277 


“I was fool enough to buy five hundred of ’em, 
and they’re down to fifteen shillings in to-night’s 
paper.” 

“Perhaps they’ll pick up,” said Norwood. “Sir 
Peter seemed to think so.” 

“The worst of it is there’s another report. Not 
the one Sir Peter spoke of, you know—and it’s a 
bad one. I can’t afford to lose the money—I shall 
have to cut the loss. I’ve been a damn fool, Nor¬ 
wood.” 

“I’m sorry,” said the lawyer, “but I’m afraid 
you have.” 

“Well, at all events, I thought I’d warn you. 
Good night. I’ve got a patient to see.” 

“Good night, Doctor. Thank you very much.” 

* * * * * 

Meanwhile, Colson was making his way to the po¬ 
lice station, which was at the bottom of the South 
Street. He seemed a little lost in thought, for he 
nearly ran into Canon Fittleworth, who was coming 
out of the Close to post a letter. 

“Oh,” said the Canon, recognising him, “have 
you got five minutes to spare? Thanks. If you 
don’t mind coming round to my house a minute, 
I’ve got that list ready.” 

“I should like to have it very much, sir,” replied 
Colson. 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


278 

The worthy Canon prided himself on his accuracy 
of detail. In his study he produced his list. 

“Mrs. Fittleworth and my daughter have care¬ 
fully refreshed my memory,” he said. “Half a 
dozen times we’ve gone over all the men who dined 
here—or smoked with me—since I received that 
box of cigars. Here’s the list. I hope it won’t help 
you in one way—I mean, they are all my intimate 
friends! ” 

He handed a paper to the detective, who ran 
his eye down the names eagerly. They were all 
prominent Frattenbury gentlemen—Dr. Hazell, Sir 
Peter Birchnall, Cathedral dignitaries, and so on. 

“I suppose you can’t remember if anyone here 
took away a cigar without smoking it, sir?” 

“Yes, I can,” said the Canon. “One of them 
who was dining here a few weeks ago was so struck 
with the flavour, that I gave him a dozen of them 
—put ’em in an empty box, and he took them with 
him.” 

“Indeed. Who was he?” 

And the Canon replied dryly, a twinkle in his eye: 

“The Dean!” 

Colson waited till he got outside the house. Then 
he said what he thought: 

“Damn these parsons!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


SIR JAMES PERRIVALE’s STORY 

The advertisement inquiring for news of the 
whereabouts of Ezra Grice, some time of Fratten- 
bury, was duly inserted in The Times and other 
daily papers. The Chief Constable demurred a lit¬ 
tle at first, but finally agreed with Colson that there 
might be something in it, although, after the lapse 
of such a long period, the discovery of the individual 
in question had many chances against it. 

At the end of the week Colson had a letter from 
Anthony Crosby, in which he said: 

My advertisement for any correspondents of 
the late Mr. Templeton has had few results , and 
1 send you them for what they are worth. I 
have, for convenience’s sake , tabulated them as 
follows: 

i. Two letters written to friends at his club — 
one from Salcombe and another from Poole — or¬ 
dinary letters stating he was shortly coming up to 
London . 


279 


2 So THE TEMPLETON CASE 

2. Four letters to tradesmen, ordering certain 
goods. 

3. A letter to the editor of a magazine of 
travel, arranging for the publication of an article. 

Neither of these, for I have made inquiries, 
refers to the matter of Ezra Grice. We may, 
therefore, build upon the elimination theory, and 
presume that if the recipient of the letter has 
seen my advertisement he prefers to say nothing 
about it. 

I notice that you are advertising for this man 
Grice. If it will help you, I am willing to offer a 
reward of £50 for information which may pro¬ 
duce him. Pray use your discretion in this mat¬ 
ter when you re-advertise. 

I think I have now succeeded in piecing to¬ 
gether the whole of the blotting-pad letter. You 
have probably arrived at a similar conclusion. 
Some may be guess-work, but I am inclined to 
believe that it reads thus: 

(i hand over Ezra Grice y s confession & proof. 

This is final.” 

Of course it is only a bit of the whole letter, 
but it is not without interest. 

The police were debating as to whether they 
should take advantage of the lawyer’s offer of the 


SIR JAMES PERRIVALE’S STORY 281 


reward, when a tall, weather-beaten individual, with 
a close-cropped moustache, got out of the London 
train at Frattenbury and inquired his way to the 
police head-quarters. He was dressed in a loose 
knickerbocker suit of excellent West End cut, and 
walked with the air of a man of resource and au¬ 
thority. He sent in his card and asked to see the 
superintendent of police. 

“Sir James Perrivale,” read the superintendent. 
“The name seems familiar. Show him in, Peters.” 

“Good morning,” said Sir James. “I’ve called 
about that advertisement—you know, what?” 

“Advertisement?” 

“The what-d’ye-call-it—that fellow named Grice. 
I saw the thing in my club yesterday.” 

“Pray sit down, Sir James. We shall be glad 
if you can give us any information about him.” 

“Look here, Superintendent, I want to know what 
you want him for. Anything against him? The 
poor devil’s gone through enough already. What?” 

“We don’t know anything against him, but we 
certainly want to find out about him.” 

“Wasn’t it down here somewhere that poor 
Templeton was murdered?” 

“Yes, Sir James—about two miles off.” 

“Queer coincidence, what? Perhaps that’s what 
you want him for?” 


282 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“I don’t understand, Sir James.” 

“Eh? Oh, I thought perhaps you knew Grice 
was with him in South Africa.” 

“Was he, by George?” exclaimed the superin¬ 
tendent. “We never knew that. We only wish we 
had more details about Mr. Templeton; it might 
help us. Do you know anything?” 

“Oh, Lord, no! Only I knew Templeton—over 
the water, and Grice too, and I was interested, 
what?” 

“Will you tell us what you know?” 

“Of course I will. Want me to make a state¬ 
ment? All right. Well, I’ve only just got back 
from South Africa, Been doing a bit of big-game 
shooting up country—I’m speaking of three or four 
months ago. I had a camp up beyond the Umbrati 
river, and Templeton struck it. He was on his way 
back. Queer chap, you know. Used to go and 
bury himself for a couple o’ years in the interior— 
exploring. Well, as I was saying, he struck our 
camp. He was in a pretty low way, too, only a 
few of his natives and this chap Grice left—very 
little ammunition. Clothes like a scarecrow.” 

“What was Grice doing with him?” 

“He’d taken him, see? Grice had been in the 
country years—Boer War, trading, diamond finding, 
ivory—all sorts of things. Sort o’ chap down on 


SIR JAMES PERRIVALE’S STORY 283 

his luck and then up again. But he knew a lot— 
he was a useful man. Spoke most of the dialects 
and understood handling natives. Templeton picked 
him up at Johannesburg, and got him to go with 
him. Poor wretch! Never thought he’d bring him 
back.” 

“What was the matter?” 

“Lots. Broken arm, fever, and all sorts of com¬ 
plications. They’d had to carry him on a stretcher 
for a week or more. Thin as a lath. I had a few 
drugs—they’d nothing left—and did what I could. 
But he looked like pegging out pretty soon.” 

“Did he?” 

“I’ll tell you. Templeton, you see, was in a 
hurry to get on. Don’t wonder. Grice was at 
death’s door, and he had to leave him. There was 
something or other first—Grice’s will, I fancy. 
Anyhow, Templeton was with him a long time the 
day before he left, and then called me and Ottery— 
Colonel Ottery, you know, who was shooting with 
me—to witness Grice’s signature. 

“The next morning Templeton left. We’d rigged 
him out a bit, and gave him what we could spare. 
We knew he’d be all right. I promised him I’d give 
Grice a decent burial.” 

“And-” 

“No, we didn’t. One of my men—Zulu, he was 



284 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

—asked to take him in hand—uncle had been a 
medicine man, and he knew something about it, 
what? Queer things they know sometimes about 
herbs and so on, pretend they’re magic, of course. 
The poor wretch was so far gone that it didn’t 
seem to matter, so I let the chap take him in hand. 
Poured a scalding hot drink down his throat, put 
white powder in his eyes—rubbed him down—all 
sorts of things. But it answered. Before we broke 
up that camp, Superintendent, Grice was walking 
about again.” 

“What happened to him?” 

“I brought him down to Cape Town and set him 
on his legs. He’d got a bit of cash. Templeton 
had paid him a lump sum down before he took him, 
and he’d banked it. Anyhow, he said he should 
stay at Cape Town for a bit till he was strong again 
—so there he is.” 

“Sir James,” said the superintendent, “I’m most 
greatly obliged to you—more than I can say. But 
we must have Grice here—as soon as possible. How 
shall we get him?” 

“You haven’t a charge against him?” 

“No, no. It’s not a question of bringing him 
over on an extradition warrant. He must come of 
his own accord. We want him at once. But there’s 
a difficulty.” 


SIR JAMES PERRIVALE’S STORY 285 

“What’s that, eh?” 

“He left this town twenty years ago, when he 
got into trouble. He was not prosecuted, but it 
might make him suspicious.” 

Sir James Perrivale thought a moment. 

“Tell me, Superintendent, in confidence, of 
course, is it anything to do with Templeton’s mur¬ 
der, because it looks like it to me, what?” 

“Yes, it is. Grice may help us materially in get¬ 
ting on the track of our man. That’s why we want 
him.” 

“Tell you what, then. I always liked Templeton 
—queer chap though he was. I’ll help you. Grice 
will listen to me. I’ll cable for him to come over by 
the next boat—and cable him the passage.” 

“If it’s a question of expense, Sir James-” 

“No, no. I’d like to. Leave it to me. I’ll get 
him for you. And now I’m here you might do 
something for me. I’ve read about the murder, of 
course. How can I get to the place to have a look 
at it? Morbid curiosity, what?” 

“I’ll run you down now in a car, with pleasure.” 

When they arrived at Marsh Quay it was peaceful 
enough. The tide was in, bathed in a sunshine 
splendour. Sir James remarked: 

“Queer, isn’t it? Here’s this chap Templeton, 
risked his life over and over again, all sorts of 



286 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


adventures, escapes, and so on, and he gets done 
to death in a quiet, beautiful spot like this—in the 
midst of our civilisation, what? Gad, I wonder who 
did it? I mustn’t ask what you know?” 

“You may ask, Sir James. But I can’t tell you 
•—only—I think things are beginning to move. Did 
you know Mr Templeton well?” 

“Met him several times—here and abroad,” said 
Sir James, as they turned away from the water’s 
edge. “Nobody knew him well; he wasn’t that 
sort. And nobody I ever met could turn him if 
he’d once made up his mind to do a thing—and he 
did queer things at times. If he thought a course 
was right, he’d stick to it—conventionality and ad¬ 
vice and prudence be damned! I shouldn’t wonder 
if it wasn’t something of this kind that brought 
that knife into his heart.” 

Sir James went away, promising to let the super¬ 
intendent know how things were shaping, and the 
latter rang up Colson, who was in his house. He 
went to the police station at once, and listened 
attentively to the story, but made little comment. 
He was still working more or less in the dark and 
was puzzled. But he acknowledged that the 
prospect was brighter. 

As he went up the street afterwards, he met 


SIR JAMES PERRIVALE’S STORY 287 

Francis Norwood coming out of the bank. The 
lawyer stopped him. 

“Well, sergeant. I’ve seen your advertisements. 
Have you found Ezra Grice?” 

“No, sir,” said Colson truthfully, for he had not 
found him. 

“I see. Well, as I said before—anything I can 
do, you know.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

The detective stood, lost in thought, as Norwood 
went on his way—looking at him. Then he shook 
his head slowly, went back to the police station, 
asked for the copy of the proceedings at the inquest, 
took it home and studied it till his wife literally 
dragged him out of his chair to come to the meal. 
But he was very silent as he ate, and as soon as 
the meal was over, returned to his perusal of the 
report. Then he took out his notebook and made 
quite long entries. 


CHAPTER XIX 


COLSON MAKES AN APPOINTMENT 

Anthony Crosby, busy man as he was, found 
a little time to follow up, from a natural curiosity, 
the strange letter that Reginald Templeton had ad¬ 
dressed to him. As the letter had surmised, this 
was not very difficult to do. He consulted several 
old law lists, and made certain inquiries at the office 
of the Law Society in Chancery Lane. 

The result was that he went to the newspaper 
reading-room of the British Museum, where he had 
a reader’s ticket, applied for files of newspapers 
twenty years old, and very soon made himself ac¬ 
quainted with the charge that had been brought 
against Winnie’s father all those years ago. He 
shook his head as he read the case—embezzlement 
of clients’ monies. 

“No wonder Templeton advised her mother to 
keep it from the girl,” he murmured. “No—there 

is no occasion to tell her now- Hallo! That’s 

curious! ” 

He read on carefully, then gave back the file of 

288 



COLSON MAKES AN APPOINTMENT 289 

papers to the attendant. As he walked away he 
said to himself: 

“This chap Ezra Grice is a bit of a puzzle. I 
wonder what Templeton knew about him? I think 
I’ll run down to Frattenbury and have a talk with 
the Chief Constable; it’s better than writing. I 
can do it without mentioning Winnie Cotterill, of 
course. She mustn’t come in.” 

Walking down Kingsway he met a friend of his, 
a stockbroker whom he had not seen for some time, 
and invited him to a cup of tea at a neighbouring 
restaurant. In the course of conversation the broker 
remarked: 

“I was saying something to my partner this morn¬ 
ing not very complimentary to your profession, 
Crosby.” 

“What was that?” 

“That the three classes of persons who make 
fools of themselves in finance are lawyers, parsons 
and old women.” 

“That’s not kind,” said Crosby with a laugh. 

“It’s true, though. We’ve had a big slump in 
the mining market to-day—‘Virginian Reefs.’ You 
haven’t got any, I hope?” 

“Not I!” 

“You’re lucky. They’ve gone down to three or 
four shillings—if you can get a bid. Now, look 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


290 

here, Crosby. I’m ready to bet you a new hat 
that you’ll find a lot of old women and parsons and 
lawyers—not one of ’em knowing anything about 
mines—well hit over the job. I’ve bought myself, 
for a country vicar and the curate of a seaside town 
—and the biggest order I had for ‘Virginian Reefs’ 
came from a lawyer—a chap who won’t take my 
advice.” 

“Who is he?” 

“That’s not a fair question. Staid old chap, liv¬ 
ing in a cathedral town—Frattenbury. I’ve had a 
frantic wire from him to sell out, but there aren’t 
bidders for all the lot he holds. Well, he’s wealthy, 
and can afford to drop a bit. Good-bye, old chap. 
I must be off.” 

* * * * * 

Down in quiet, sleepy Frattenbury the superin¬ 
tendent received a wire that day from Sir James 
Perrivale: 

E. G. started from Cape. Boat due Plymouth 

December 8. 

“It’s a waiting game, sir, then, for a few weeks,” 
said Colson, to whom the superintendent showed 
the wire. “But I want a little time.” 

“Your week’s up, and more,” said the other. 
“Have you anything to tell the chief? He’s getting 
restive.” 


COLSON MAKES AN APPOINTMENT 291 

“All right/’ said Colson. “I can tell him enough 
to keep him quiet—though I’ve several things to 
see to before I can satisfy him. I’m just off for a 
final visit to Marsh Quay. There’s a question I 
want to ask that little blighter, Proctor, which has 
only just occurred to me.” 

“What’s that?” 

But Colson only shook his head, and started forth 
on his bicycle. The little man grinned at him when 
he was shown into his house at Marsh Quay. 

“Come to arrest me again?” 

“No, Mr. Proctor, I haven’t. But I want to ask 
you something. Just carry your mind back to the 
inquest. Do you remember how that cigar band 
went round the jury?” 

“Yes—perfectly. The Canon gave it to the cor¬ 
oner and he handed it to the jury. Nine of them 
had it before it came to me. I handed it over to the 
two others—across the table—and they returned 
it to the coroner.” 

“Yes—that’s so. Then I suppose you recognised 
that band across the table—or somehow—before it 
got to you?” 

“No, I didn’t. It was only when I found it in 
my hand that I recognised it. Why do you ask?” 

“Then why the dickens did you get ready to 
change it before you knew what it was?” 


292 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


“Change it!” exclaimed Proctor. “What are you 
talking about? I never changed it! ” 

“What?” cried the detective, springing from his 

seat. “Do you mean to tell me you never-” 

He stopped suddenly. “Good Lord!” he said, sit¬ 
ting down in his chair again. 

“What is it?” asked Proctor. 

The detective thought rapidly. 

“One of those two jurymen must have changed 
it,” he said. “It was another band we found we 
had afterwards. For heaven’s sake keep your mouth 
shut about it, Mr. Proctor.” 

“The jurymen. What—Bailey or Westall? They 
were the two. Why, my dear sir, Bailey is a most 
respectable man—so is Westall.” 

“It isn’t a respectable man we’re after, Mr. 
Proctor. It’s a murderer. Remember, we even 
suspected you ” 

“But I can’t believe-” 

“Don’t try, sir, don’t try. Promise me you’ll 
say nothing, now. It mustn’t get out till we’ve 
investigated.” 

“Of course I’ll say nothing. But you astound 
me.” 

“I’m astounded myself,” said Colson, “though I 
really ought not to be. Good day, Mr. Proctor— 
mum’s the word, remember.” 




COLSON MAKES AN APPOINTMENT 293 

He rushed back to Frattenbury and called at the 
Deanery. To his question, the maid informed him 
the Dean was abroad, and wouldn’t be back till the 
first week in December. His language, as he came 
away, concerning clergy in general and Cathedral 
dignitaries in particular, was awful. 

For two hours that evening he was closeted with 
the Chief Constable and the superintendent. All 
three men were exceedingly grave. Major Renshaw 
said at length: 

“We must get all the evidence, Colson. IPs an 
awful thing, if it’s true. How about that stick!” 

“I don’t want to have to use it till we’ve proved 
the rest, sir. He might slip out of our hands on 
that alone.” 

“Also, there’s Ezra Grice,” said the superin¬ 
tendent. 

“Yes—there’s Ezra Grice,” repeated the Chief 
Constable. “We’ll wait for him.” 

* * * * * 

As the weeks went by, Frattenbury and the news¬ 
papers forgot all about the murder. There were 
other matters for local gossip. People hinted that 
Francis Norwood was getting closer than ever with 
his cash. He demanded payments almost before 
he gave advice or transacted business. He sold 
a block of cottages belonging to him. And sundry 


294 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


creditors began to say they wished he was as ready 
to pay his bills as he was to be paid. 

The Dean returned from his trip to the Riviera, 
and Colson called on him again. This time he came 
out of the Deanery evoking blessings on the heads of 
the clergy, instead of curses. There was another 
long conference between the three policemen—and 
their faces were graver than ever. Colson watched 
the shipping news anxiously, and one day took him¬ 
self off to Plymouth, returning with a sallow-faced 
man who joined the trio at a further conference 
that evening—and it was very late when Colson 
took the stranger to his own house—where Mrs. 
Colson had a spare room ready for him. 

“To-morrow, then,” the Chief Constable had said, 
when Colson left, and Colson had repeated the 
words. 

In the morning, the detective, who was carrying 
the stick he had found in the dinghy, met Canon 
Fittleworth. He stopped him. 

“In confidence, sir,” he said, “I shall have some 
news to tell you this evening—about your late 
cousin. Shall you be at home?” 

“Indeed?” said the Canon, much interested. 
“Let me see—I’m alone in the house, and I’ve asked 
Mr. Norwood to dine with me—at half-past seven. 
Can you come about an hour earlier?” 


COLSON MAKES AN APPOINTMENT 295 

A smile lingered on the detective’s face, and he 
replied: 

“Mr. Norwood might like to hear my news as 
well. Should I be intruding at—say nine o’clock?” 

“Come, by all means.” 

“Thank you, sir—you won’t mention this to Mr. 
Norwood?” 

“If you don’t want me to.” 

“I’d rather not, sir.” 

“Very well.” 

Colson, after this interview, did not pursue his 
way up the street. Instead, he retraced it to the 
police station. 

“Better still, by and by,” he remarked. 

About eight o’clock he was walking up the street 
again, carrying the stick. He rang the bell of a 
quiet house in a quiet street. He was about five 
minutes inside that house, and then he went back 
to the police station, outwardly calm, but inwardly 
realising that this was the most intense moment of 
his life. 

“It’s perfectly true, sir,” he said to the Chief 
Constable, holding out the walking-stick. 

The Chief Constable sighed deeply. 

“Very well,” he said, “then there’s nothing more 
to say about it.” 

A little before nine the three policemen, and the 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


296 

stranger staying in Colson’s house, walked up the 
South Street together, and disappeared through the 
gateway half-way up the street into the quiet regions 
of the Cathedral Close. 

“I ordered the taxi, sir,” said Colson. “It will 
be all ready—outside the house—about half-past 
nine.” 

Major Renshaw nodded in silence. He was feel¬ 
ing the situation acutely. 


CHAPTER XX 


colson’s “imagination” 

The maid who opened the door looked a little 
surprised when she found herself confronted with 
the four men. 

“I think the Canon is engaged,” she began, “he 
has someone-” 

“Oh, he’s expecting us—one of us, at least,” said 
the Chief Constable. “I think he’ll see us. Who 
is with him?” 

“Mr. Norwood, sir.” 

“Very well, will you show us in, please? Except 
this gentleman—he will wait in the hall.” 

The Canon rose from his seat as the three police¬ 
men entered. Neither of them was in uniform. 
Major Renshaw, a punctilious man, wore evening 
dress. He always dressed for dinner. 

Francis Norwood, seated in an arm-chair near the 
fire, also rose when he saw Major Renshaw. The 
Canon held out his hand in greeting. 

“This is a surprise,” he said; “I hardly ex¬ 
pected-” 


297 




298 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“You must forgive this intrusion, Canon,” in¬ 
terrupted the Chief Constable. “Sergeant Colson 
mentioned that he was going to see you this evening, 
and we’ve taken the liberty of coming with him.” 

As he spoke he did not take the Canon’s proffered 
hand. Instead, he bowed stiffly to him and Francis 
Norwood—who sat down once more. Indeed, the 
whole attitude of Major Renshaw savoured of of¬ 
ficialism. The Canon apparently, noticed it. He 
stiffened slightly. 

“Won’t you sit down?” he asked. 

The Chief Constable and the superintendent took 
the chairs he offered near the middle of the room. 
Colson, who had one hand behind his back, sat 
down in a chair near the door. When he had done 
so, he stooped to lay down his hat and stick, which 
he placed on the floor, behind a sofa. 

“If I’m in the way, Fittleworth-” began Nor¬ 

wood. 

“Not at all,” broke in the Chief Constable; “don’t 
let us disturb you.” 

Canon Fittleworth sat down again, wiped his 
pince-nez with his handkerchief, and adjusted them 
on his nose, and said, addressing the Major: 

“Well now, Major, I don’t know the purpose of 
your visit, but can only presume you have some 
news to impart. Is it about my late cousin?” 



COLSON S “IMAGINATION” 


299 


“Yes, it is—something you ought to know.” 

“In that case,” said the Canon, “Mr. Norwood 
will be interested too.” 

Norwood nodded his head slightly, and said in 
his judicial manner: 

“Naturally. My business with the unhappy affair 
ended, of course, with the verdict that was returned. 
But, as a private individual, I may be allowed some 
curiosity. Is there anything fresh, Major?” 

“There is,” said the Chief Constable, but ad¬ 
dressing his remarks to the Canon as he spoke. 
“Detective-Sergeant Colson, as you know, has had 
the case in hand, and I’m going to ask you to let 
him tell you in his own way.” 

“Very well,” said the Canon to Colson, “we shall 
be pleased to hear you.” 

Colson’s face flushed slightly; he glanced round 
the room, and finally fixed his gaze on Canon Fittle- 
worth. It was some moments before he began— 
the Chief Constable had even to say to him: 

“Go on, Colson.” 

“Well, sir,” said Colson, addressing the Canon, 
and never looking at anyone else, “this has not been 
an easy case at all, and I don’t mind confessing 
that I’ve blundered considerably.” 

“You’ve done your best, sergeant, I’m sure. And 
no man can do more.” 


300 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


It was Norwood who spoke, but Colson took no 
notice of him. He only seemed to be aware of Canon 
Fittleworth’s presence. He went on: 

“My initial mistake, which led to others, was in 
taking it for granted that robbery was the motive 
for the murder—I allude to the diamonds. There 
were three persons who came under suspicion—there 
were ugly facts against each of them, especially 
as one of them was possessed of cigars of the same 
brand as those which you smoke, sir. And, in spite 
of the band being changed-^-or, rather, because of 
it—we felt quite sure that this individual was our 
man.” 

“What do you mean by the cigar band being 
changed?” asked Norwood. 

But the detective never removed his eyes from the 
Canon. 

“Yes—it was changed,” he said. “I’ll come to 
that later on. Well, as I was saying, these three 
men were cleared of all complicity with the crime. 
As for your cigars, Canon Fittleworth”—and he 
took a paper from his pocket—“I have a list here 
of all the persons to whom you gave any of those 
particular cigars, and I am satisfied that not one of 
them committed the murder, or knew anything about 
it.” 

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said the Canon, a 


COLSON’S “IMAGINATION” 301 

little uncomfortably, for the detective’s fixed gaze 
was beginning to fascinate him strangely. 

“It’s true,” went on Colson. “Well, the time came 
when I dismissed from my mind the idea that the 
robbery of the diamonds was the motive. I had 
to begin all over again. And now, Canon Fittle- 
worth, I want to tell you how I imagine in my own 
mind that your cousin was done to death.” 

“Do you know?” 

“I said ‘imagine,’ sir. Few people have ever wit¬ 
nessed the actual committal of a murder. Mr. 
Templeton, I think, was killed because he was a 
very foolish man. I would go so far as to say that 
he probably brought it on himself.” 

“But-” began the Canon. 

“Please, sir,” said the detective, holding up his 
hand, “let me tell my story in my own way. I want 
you to follow your cousin’s movements in your mind 
from the time he left this house on the Saturday 
night.” 

“This is all imagination, I think you said?” asked 
Francis Norwood. 

“This is all imagination, yes. But imagination 
often helps to reconstruct a crime. Well, sir, he 
left your fiouse to keep an appointment.” 

“With whom?” asked the Canon. 

“Ah ” replied Colson, “there is no one to tell us 



THE TEMPLETON CASE 


302 

that. There were no witnesses, we will suppose. 
Imagination, sir! He kept the appointment then. 
In Frattenbury. As this is imagination, we will call 
the person with whom he had an appointment ‘Mr. 
Blank.’ The end of this appointment was, that he 
and ‘Mr. Blank’ walked back together to Marsh 
Quay.” 

“Why?” asked the Canon. 

“Probably—for I don’t know—because your 
cousin asked him to go,” said Colson. “I told you 
he was a very foolish man. I believe he had faced 
many dangers in the course of his life, but he was 
never in so much danger as when he took that walk 
back to his yacht. Shall I tell you the way the two 
men went? Yes? Imagination, remember, sir! 
Well, they didn’t start along the well-lighted South 
Street. They went down the parallel street—only 
two lamps in it, sir—and hardly a soul there at 
that time of night. Then they went on to the Canal 
Basin—‘Mr. Blank’ had chosen the route—turned 
sharply to the right, crossed the main road, and 
took the field path leading to Marsh Quay. 

“When they reached the shore your cousin pulled 
‘Mr. Blank’ out to the yacht in his dinghy. ‘Mr. 
Blank’ was smoking a cigar at the time—or lighted 
it when he got on board the yacht.” 


COLSON’S “IMAGINATION” 303 

“Why do you imagine that my cousin took him 
on board?” 

“My fancy, sir, if you like. Let us say that there 
was something on board which your cousin had 
promised to show ‘Mr. Blank’—or to give to him. 
And as soon as he produced it, ‘Mr. Blank,’ who, 
I think, must have armed himself with a weapon 
for the purpose, killed your cousin.” 

“But why-” 

“Stop a moment, sir. Hear me out. ‘Mr. Blank,’ 
who had not noticed that the band had dropped 
off his cigar, very quickly relieved your cousin of 
any papers he had on him—we will imagine there 
was a reason for this—then he rowed ashore in the 
dinghy and did a very curious thing—it puzzled 
my imagination—at first. But I thought out a 
reason for it. He got hold of a canoe and took 
the dinghy back to the yacht again, making her 
fast, and finally paddled himself to shore in the 
canoe and walked back to Frattenbury, where he 
let himself into his house before, we will imagine, 
the theatrical performance at the Town Hall was 
quite over. Well, sir, that’s my theory of how your 
cousin was murdered.” 

He paused. The Chief Constable and the superin¬ 
tendent sat like two statues. Francis Norwood 



THE TEMPLETON CASE 


304 

leaned a little forward in his chair, and remarked, 
with a touch of sarcasm: 

“A very lucid story, sergeant. I hope you may 
be successful in tracking down this ‘Mr. Blank.’ ” 

But, again ignoring the coroner, Colson went on— 
to the Canon: 

“What do you think of it, sir?” 

“I don’t know what to think. It’s so very strange. 
But, to confine ourselves to your definition, can you 
imagine the motive?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Colson, very quietly. “I think 
I can.” 

“What was it?” 

Something that the law would call by a very ugly 
name—‘blackmail.’ That’s what I think, sir.” 

“Blackmail!—this ‘Mr. Blank’?” 

“No, sir. Mr. Templeton!” 

“My cousin a blackmailer!” exclaimed Canon 
Fittleworth. “Preposterous! ” 

“I said that’s what the law would call him, sir. 
Please—let me go on. I haven’t quite finished. Let 
me imagine something further.” 

For the first time since he had begun to speak, 
he took his eyes off the Canon, and gave a rapid 
glance at Superintendent Norton. Then he looked 
at the Canon again. 


COLSON’S “IMAGINATION” 


305 


“What I am about to imagine now,” he said slowly, 
“is first that the Dean gave ‘Mr. Blank’ one of the 
Canon’s cigars, secondly that ‘Mr. Blank’ was a 
left-handed man, and thirdly that he made one 
fatal mistake—he left his walking-stick in the dinghy 
—and this is it!” 

He lifted the walking-stick, suddenly, from be¬ 
hind the sofa and held it out to the Canon. Then 
he turned in a flash, and sprang across the room. 

“Mr. Norwood, I arrest you for the murder of 
Reginald Templeton.” 

There was a flash of steel and a click. Francis 
Norwood, who had risen to his feet when Colson 
had darted towards him, stood there, the handcuffs 
on his wrist. 

“Damn you!” he exclaimed, for once losing his 
frigidity. “What do you mean? That isn’t my 
stick. I had one like it, it is true, but I know that 
isn’t mine—I-” 

“Norwood,” broke in the Chief Constable sternly, 
“it is my duty to warn you that anything you say 
will be taken down and may be given in evidence.” 

“It is your stick,” said Colson gravely. “Your 
housekeeper recognised it this evening. I’ve had it 
from the first. The one you removed from the 
dinghy the next night was a dummy. I put it there.” 


3 o6 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

The astonished Canon looked from one to the 
other, and exclaimed to Major Renshaw: 

“Is this—is this extraordinary action counte¬ 
nanced by you, Major?” 

“I fear it is, Canon,” replied Major Renshaw. 
“Knowing what we do—and there is a great deal 
more—I have no option in the matter.” 

“But this is terrible—terrible!” 

Francis Norwood, still deadly pale, recovered a 
little from the shock. 

“This is unpardonable of you, Major Renshaw. 
I demand an explanation.” 

“Colson will give you one, Mr. Norwood. But I 
fear it will not help you.” 

He nodded to the detective, who opened the door. 
A thin, white-faced, emaciated man came into the 
room. Norwood regarded him with horror. 

“Ezra Grice! ” he exclaimed in a low voice. “I—I 
thought he was dead!” 

“I know you did,” said Colson, “or you wouldn’t 
have been so eager to help with that advertisement. 
Shall I ask Grice to tell his story?” 

“No—no,” said the lawyer. “No—yes—I don’t 
care if he does. It’s all a pack of lies, and he can’t 
prove anything.” 

“It doesn’t matter whether he can or not,” said 


COLSON’S “IMAGINATION” 307 

Colson. “I haven’t arrested you because of some¬ 
thing you did twenty years ago. You are charged 
with murder—not embezzlement. May I go on, 
sir?” he asked the Chief Constable. 

“It is irregular, Colson,” said the Major stiffly. 

“I should very much like to know more,” put in 
the bewildered Canon. “I think I have a right to 
ask. You’ve arrested one of my friends in my own 
house—charged with the murder of my cousin. Nor¬ 
wood,” and he went up to the lawyer, “won’t you 
tell me you didn’t do this awful thing? I can’t 
believe it!” 

“You’ve heard what Major Renshaw said,” re¬ 
plied Norwood. “Anything I say may incriminate 
me. I have no desire to discuss the matter further 
at this point.” 

“We owe you a further explanation, Canon, as 
you say,” remarked the Chief Constable, “and with 
your permission, Colson shall remain—and Mr. 
Grice.” 

The Canon nodded. 

“Thank you,” he said. “They may stay.” 

“Come!” said the superintendent. Between him 
and the Chief Constable the coroner walked out of 
the room, and a motor was heard a few moments 
later. Canon Fittleworth sat down and buried his 
head in his hands. Presently he said: 


3 o8 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

“I’m thankful my wife and daughter are not at 
home.” 

“It wouldn’t have happened here, sir, if they 
had been, I assure you. You told me, you know, 
that you were alone.” 

The Canon nodded. 

“Go on,” he said. “I want to hear it all—poor 
Reginald! ” 

“It’s a long story, sir, but I’ll try to make it as 
short as possible. The first idea that set me on 
the right track was that the murderer was a left- 
handed man. I found out that Mr. Templeton did 
not walk with a stick—I mean, didn’t put the point 
to the ground. There were square tracks of the 
stick’s ferrule on the path to Marsh Quay, on the 
left side as you go out.” 

“But what made you suspect the stick had any¬ 
thing to do with it?” 

Colson told him how the dummy one had been 
removed on the night after the murder, and then 
went on. 

“I was on the look-out for a left-handed man, 
and one day I saw Mr. Norwood draw a cork from 
a bottle. He held the bottle with his right hand and 
drew it with his left. It seemed preposterous, but 
when I noticed him another day walking down the 
street with a stick in his left hand it set me think- 


COLSON’S “IMAGINATION” 309 

ing. I got the report of the inquest, and studied 
it carefully, noting all the coroner’s questions. And 
it seemed to me that he was particularly anxious 
to find out whether anyone had an idea as to your 
cousin’s appointment. Also, when Jim Webb men¬ 
tioned that he had read the address on the letter 
to you, he questioned him narrowly as to whether 
he had read any other addresses. Then he must 
have felt secure until you produced that cigar band. 
I thought for a long time that Proctor had changed 
it, but when I found he hadn’t, I knew it could 
only have been the coroner himself.” 

“Why?” 

“There were several old bands off cigars that had 
been smoked by Grayson, lying in the grate. Don’t 
you remember that the coroner dropped some papers 
in the grate, and stooped down to get them? So did 
Proctor. That’s why I suspected him first. After¬ 
wards I saw it all. While that cigar band was passing 
round the jury, the coroner picked up one from the 
grate and changed it. Clever! But it was a foolish 
thing to do, as it turned out. 

“You told me you gave a dozen of your cigars 
to the Dean. He remembered that when Norwood 
was dining with him afterwards—just a day or two 
before the murder—he smoked one of them, and 


3io 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


liked it so much that the Dean gave him a couple, 
which he put in his case. 

“Well, in Norwood’s hall, when I went to see 
him one day, I noticed several queer photographs 
and old weapons—three or four small daggers among 
them—hanging on the wall. Then Mr. Crosby was 
a great help; he put me on the track of finding Ezra 
Grice. There was a letter partly blotted on Mr. 
Templeton’s blotting-pad that gave us the clue. And 
Mr. Crosby also found out the beginning of the 
whole story, and accidentally discovered that the 
coroner was speculating heavily—and that had a 
lot to do with things. He wanted money.” 

“Dear me,” said the Canon. “I imagined him to 
be a wealthy man.” 

“So did most people, sir, but after what we heard 
we made inquiries, and found out a lot about him. 
And I assure you that even if I hadn’t arrested 
him to-night, he’d very soon have been in the bank¬ 
ruptcy court.” 

“You astonish me.” 

“It’s true, sir. Now, when our friend Ezra Grice 
here arrived from South Africa, he solved the rest 
of the mystery. We have his sworn statement. Will 
you tell the Canon, Mr. Grice?” 

Grice, who had not spoken hitherto, said: 


COLSON’S “IMAGINATION” gii 

“Yes, I will. Where shall I begin?” 

“At the beginning—twenty years ago.” 

“You’ll find it a strange story, sir,” said Colson. 
“And it will explain why I said the law would have 
called your cousin a blackmailer.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


FINAL SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM 

It was an extraordinary story that Ezra Grice 
had to tell. Briefly, the first part of it amounted 
to this. Twenty years ago he had been clerk in 
Francis Norwood’s office. Norwood, at that time, 
had a partner, a young married man named Forbes. 
Forbes was tried on a charge of embezzlement, and 
Grice was a witness for the prosecution. But Grice 
was deeply involved himself. Addicted to betting, 
he had helped himself to the firm’s money—falsify¬ 
ing accounts. 

Just before the trial commenced he made a dis¬ 
covery—a discovery that would have proved Forbes 
an innocent man. And the discovery he made was 
that Norwood himself, who had been speculating 
heavily, had embezzled the money from two clients 
—and not Forbes at all. Knowing this, he went into 
Norwood’s private office and accused him of the 
crime. 

But Norwood turned the tables on him. To 
Grice’s horror, he calmly produced proofs of the 
312 


FINAL SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM 313 

clerk’s defalcations, and threatened to give him in 
charge instantly. 

“And who is going to believe you then?” he asked 
calmly. “Do you think they’ll take the word of a 
thief against mine?” 

Grice, who had no proofs in his possession at the 
time, but had only arrived at his conclusions by a 
study of accounts and documents passing through 
his hands, was staggered. He felt he had matched 
himself unwisely against the astute lawyer—who 
was quick to see this. 

“Very well,” Norwood had said, “you can take 
your choice. Either I send for a policeman at once, 
or you withdraw what you say, and give your evi¬ 
dence to-morrow. Which is it to be? I give you 
five minutes to decide.” 

Ezra Grice decided before the five minutes were 
up. He caved in, abjectly. As soon as the trial 
was over, and Forbes was sentenced, Norwood coolly 
told him that unless he left Frattenbury at once 
and never returned, he would prosecute him for 
theft. 

“And if I say what I know?” asked Grice. 

“They won’t believe you if you do; and if they 
do believe you, then you’ll be prosecuted for perjury 
as well.” 

Again the wretched clerk gave in. But before he 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


3 i 4 

left the office that very day he made a fresh dis¬ 
covery—a paper which Norwood had left out of his 
safe that absolutely incriminated him. He was half 
inclined to make use of this paper and have his 
revenge on the wily lawyer, but fear got the better 
of him. However, when he left Frattenbury the 
next day he took this paper with him and kept it 
carefully. 

He went out to South Africa and led a roving 
life for years keeping honest all the time. He had 
had one great fright, and that was enough for him. 
He always kept the incriminating paper; he was in 
dread that perhaps one day his crime might follow 
him, and he looked upon it as a weapon of defence 
in case he ever met Norwood again. Finally, as 
Sir James Perrivale had said, he joined Reginald 
Templeton in an exploration in the interior. 

“It was a long time,” he went on to the Canon, 
“before I told Mr. Templeton my story—and he 
was the only man to whom I ever told it before 
the police took it down here. I happened to men¬ 
tion Frattenbury one day, and he questioned me, 
but I didn’t let him know anything then. However, 
I saw he knew something about the Forbes case 
and was interested in it. 

“Then he saved my life. I got to like him. He 
was a queer man, but very kind to me always. I 


FINAL SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM 315 

shall never forget how he stood by me on that 
awful journey before we struck Sir James Perri- 
vale’s camp. My arm was broken and I was down 
with fever. He’d help to carry the stretcher himself 
—miles at a time. 

“I asked him point-blank one day if he was in¬ 
terested in Forbes. He only answered ‘Yes.’ Then 
I said, ‘Would it be any use to you to know he was 
innocent of that charge?’ I shan’t forget what he 
said. He questioned me eagerly and I told him all 
about it. Then he said, ‘Thank God for this, Grice. 
Forbes died long ago; but he’s left a daughter— 
and, by God, that scoundrel Norwood shall make 
it up to her! ’ 

“He made me promise I’d go back to England 
with him—if we ever came through—and help him 
expose Norwood—or, rather, he said he was not 
going to expose him—he’d got a better card to play 
than that. But it seemed that I wasn’t going to 
get back to England. They all thought me dying 
when we got to the camp. Mr. Templeton had to 
go on, but before he left he wrote down my state¬ 
ment which I signed before witnesses, and asked me 
to give him that paper I had on me. Of course I 
did, and then he told me what he was going to do. 
I can hear him saying it now. 

“ ‘You’ll have your revenge on Norwood,’ he said. 


THE TEMPLETON CASE 


316 

‘And it’s a revenge that will touch him to the quick 
on his sorest point. Forbes is dead, and we can’t 
help him. And his wife is dead. But there’s her 
daughter. If I were to give Norwood into the hands 
of the law there’d be no recompense for her . But, 
by God, there shall be! As soon as I get back 
to the old country I shall write to Norwood, tell 
him what I know, and offer him choice between 
exposure and ten thousand pounds.’ ” 

“That is where the blackmail comes in, sir,” inter¬ 
posed Colson quietly. “And I don’t know that I 
wouldn’t justify it—but the law wouldn’t.” 

“Go on, please,” said the Canon to Grice. 

“Well, sir, he went on to say that if he got this 
sum out of Norwood he should settle it on Forbes’s 
daughter—not telling her where it came from, and 
not letting her know about her father. He said 
she was only a child at the time—well, I knew that; 
I’ve often seen her here—and that she had been 
brought up in ignorance of her father’s crime.” 

“I think I know who she was,” murmured the 
Canon. “That accounts for those strange impres¬ 
sions of having been here before—and recognising 
Norwood. Yes?” 

Ezra Grice finished the story, and the detective 
took up the threads. 

“Now do you see, sir?” he asked. “Mr. Temple- 


FINAL SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM 317 

ton evidently carried out his threat and wrote to 
Norwood on his return. Then he made an appoint¬ 
ment with him. He wrote saying he was prepared 
to hand over Grice’s confession and proofs in ex¬ 
change for the money. Norwood must have been 
in a terrible dilemma. He must get those proofs 
in any case; it would mean utter ruin to him if he 
was once exposed. But he hadn’t the money to 
buy them. Whether or not he meant to bluff your 
cousin remains to be seen. Anyhow, he made the 
appointment, and sent his domestics to the per¬ 
formance at the Town Hall that night—I’ve found 
out that—in order to be alone when Templeton 
called.” 

“But why go back to Marsh Quay with him?” 
asked the Canon. 

“Don’t you see, sir? I think we can guess. 
Templeton hadn’t got the confession and proofs on 
him. He made a mistake by being too careful. You 
told us he said he was very likely going to spend 
a few nights here. Very well. That particular night 
he wasn’t prepared to hand them over. The coroner 
had probably not committed himself, even by a 
typewritten, unsigned letter. And he knew he hadn’t 
the money.” 

“What did he do, then?” asked the Canon. 

“Probably pretended that he had got it, and in- 


318 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

\ 

duced Templeton to give him the proofs that night. 
By this time he had made up his mind that he must 
have them—in any case. And I think he took that 
dagger, or whatever it was, with him—ready to 
take the biggest risk of all. Which we know he 
did! ” 

Canon Fittleworth sat for a few minutes in silence. 
Then he said: * 

“Thank you, Sergeant Colson, and thank you also, 
Mr. Grice. The whole affair has been terrible— 
very terrible. I want time to think it over. I must 
say, however, Colson, that you are a very clever 
man to have found out all this.” 

“Thank you, sir. I did my best. And someone 
helped me very much. Good night, sir. I’m very 
sorry all this has happened.” 

Colson and Ezra Grice went out, leaving the 
Canon seated in his chair gazing at the fire, his mind 
greatly agitated. 

* * * * * 

At the police station that night Norwood asked 
to be provided with writing materials. They did so. 
He smiled sardonically while they searched him and 
took away a penknife and a pair of pocket nail- 
scissors. 

But in the morning they found him hanging to 
the bar of the window—they have out-of-date cells 


FINAL SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM 319 

in Frattenbury—his braces substituted for the rope 
that he would have eventually earned. And on the 
table was a characteristic document: 

I am anxious to assist my successor, though I 
fancy he will have no trouble in persuading the 
jury as to the verdict. I am a ruined man, with 
no more use for the world. Sergeant Colson 7 s 
“imagination” is fairly correct. I will only add 
that I persuaded Templeton I had the money. 
He had demanded cash. 1 showed him what 
appeared to be a roll of notes — tissue-paper with 
some genuine ones at the top. 1 also told him 
that unless he gave me what Ezra Grice has prob¬ 
ably described that night, I should abscond — 
with the ten thousand pounds on me. He made 
a mistake in not bringing what he had for sale — 
he was too cautious. It was the dagger hanging 
in my hall when I put my coat on that suggested 
I might have to take a desperate step. I took it 
with me. Templeton produced what I wanted 
from the locker. Then he was fool enough to 
examine the roll of notes I had laid on the table. 
That was the end of it. I took the contents of 
his pockets to make sure in case he had anything 
with my name on it. I desire to say that I regret 


320 THE TEMPLETON CASE 

what I did, but I was desperate that night. That 

is all. 

* * * * * 

“Mr. Crosby,” said the Canon the following day 
—the lawyer had come down to Frattenbury on 
receipt of a wire from the police—“I want to ask 
you something.” 

“What is it?” 

“This girl, Winifred Cotterill—or Forbes, as we 
must call her now. If there had been a trial, I 
suppose everything would have come out?” 

“About her father? Certainly. Ezra Grice would 
have given evidence, and the girl must have guessed.” 

“I thought so. As it is, however, she has never 
heard about her father’s sufferings. Poor fellow, 
what he must have gone through! The matter, you 
tell me, rests in your hands. What are you going 
to do about it? Shall you tell her the whole story?” 

The lawyer thought for a minute or two, and 
replied shortly: 

“I don’t know, Canon Fittleworth. That is a 
question I shall have to consider. I haven’t made 
up my mind yet.” 


THE END 

















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